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1 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

MMHIMMMMifSK. 


-mfw-i-«Miiiimiiii,iiiiia,iitjfiTi(iiiiriiitfirii 


'n 


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776 


TOINETTE'S  PHILIP 


.Mt^, 


'r 


EE    PAGE  215.) 


TOINETTE'S  PHILIP 


MRS.  C.  V.  J^ISON 

AUTHOR  OF    "La'SyJANE" 


.•^ 


/ 


■^ 


i/i/toy-^%^.. 


NEW  YORK 

THE  CENTURY  CO. 
1894 


.:s' 


'is* 


Copyright,  1893,  1894,  by 
The  Century  Co. 


tmoivinm  niM 


r- 


y/. 


.5 


CONTENTS 


PAGR 

Philip,  Dea,  and  Homo i 

Grande  Seline j 

How  THEY   became   ACQUAINTED II 

LiLYBEL 15 

Dea  SELLS  Quasimodo 22 

toinette .^ 

Philip  asks  a  Question 37 

An  Artist  in  Wax 44 

The  "Children"  of  Pt;RE  Josef      51 

The  little  Models 57 

PiiRE  Josef's  Sacrifice 63 

A  Surprise 71 

Philip  says  "  No" 77 

"  I  'vE  come  to  stay  with  you  " 82 

They  visit  St.  Roch's 89 

The  Departure 95 

A  little  Heiress 99 

A  little  Waif 106 

Quasimodo  furnishes  a  Clue 113 

An  Innocent  Mistake 117 

The  poor  Doll  faints 121 

Philip  pleads  for  the  "Children" .  128 


r- 


viU  CONTENTS 

rAOK 
CHAP. 

XXIII.  Another  Rival 137 

XXIV.  A  joYKUL  Meeting '44 

XXV.  A  Crisis '5' 

XXVI.  "Good  Night,  Mr.  Butler" 'S* 

XXVII.  The  empty  Room '^^ 

XXVIII.  PfeRE  Josef  sends  a  Package  of  Letters 17' 

XXIX.  The  little  Pilgrims '76 

XXX.  Madam  Ainsworth  receives  a  Package  of  Letters 183 

XXXI.  They  press  on '^9 

XXXII.  The  Sweet-olive  is  in  bloom   .    .    .  • 'Q'' 

XXXIII.  After  many  Days »°5 

XXXIV.  At  the  Gate "' 

XXXV.  A  Bed  of  Roses "^ 

XXXVI.  A  Reconciliation "3 

XXXVII.  A  successful  Picture '3* 


'  He  cried, 

Philip,  L 

'  Lilybel  a 

him  " 

Toinette  < 

"  Toineitet 

Dea  and 

I"  PereJoseJ 

Per  e  Jose) 

■  She  took  b 

Philip  an 

The  little 

'  Lucille  V!i 

I"  Suddenly 

almost 

'He  liked ti 

['  Philip  rm 

Lilybel  gn 

I'  Bassett  ga 

P ere  Josef 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


' '  He  cried,  '  Dea  !  Seline  I '  and  fell  feebly  forward  "      ....  FrontispIe'ce 
Philip,  Dea,  and  "Homo" 

■'Lilybel  could  not  resist  scrambling  for  some  of  the  Nuts,  and  Seline  caught 

him"      .... 

17 

Totnette  and  Philip  before  the  old  Detrava  Gate 

"Toineite  was  filling  the  IVire  Design  of  a  Lamb  with  jasmine  Blossoms"     '.    39 

Dea  and  her  Father   .    ;     .     . 
,     „.  46 

\"  Pcre  Josef  softly  whistled  an  old  Walti' 

Pere  Josef '  s  Sacrifice      ....  ' 

«...    67 

\'  She  took  him  in  her  Arms  and  drew  him  close  to  her" 0 

Philip  and  Dea  at  Toinette's  Grave    .  ^ 

93 

The  little  Heiress  returns  from  her  Drive 

103 

r '  Lucille  was  scrambling  on  to  the  hall  Table  " 

"  Suddenly  Madam  Ainswortb  started  from  her  Chair  and  looked  at  the  Boy 

]       almost  in  terror"   .    .    . 

133 

'  He  liked  to  brood  in  the  green  Shadows  " 
I  140 

V  Philip  rushed  into  the  Group  of  Boys" 

Lilybel  gives  an  Exhibition  .... 

155 

\  Bassett  gave  him  a  hearty  Clasp" 

Perejosef  reads  Toinette's  Letter  .    .     . 

'73 

a 


LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGE 


' '  Lilybel  rubbed  his  Eyes  and  yawned,  while  Philip  shook  him  vigorously  "   .  1 79 
••  •  What  is  it?   Oh,  what  has  happened? '  cried  Mrs.  Ainsworih "     .    .     .  1 87 

"  Philip  grieved  sorely  over  the  tiny  dead  Thing" '93 

'•  Taking  Philip  in  his  Arms,  he  trudged  off  toward  a  large  Tree"  .     .     .199 
•'  He  leaned  against  the  Fence  of  the  deserted  Cottage,  and  cried  bitterly"  .  209 

>^  Looking  up,  he  saw  Pere  Josef  leaning  over  him" 220 

'"/  shall  live  to  make  you  happy,'  said  Madam  Ainswortb" 229 

'^ 'This  is  what  they  say  of  the  Picture,' said  Philip" 233 


PAGE 


TOINETTE'S  PHILIP 


r- 


I 


ll-' 


«  I 


« I 


./*~ 


TOINETTES  PHILIP 

Chapter  I 

'  PHILIP,    DEA,    AND   HOMO 

ONE  sunny  morning  early  in  March,  two  children,  a  boy  and  a 
I  girl,  followed  by  a  large  shaggy  dog,  slowly  sauntered  up 
Rue  Royale,  in  the  French  quarter  of  New  Orleans.  The 
boy  was  about  nine  years  old,  the  girl  not  more  than  eight,  the  dog- 
no  one  could  tell  his  age  with  any  degree  of  certainty;  but  he  was  no 
longer  young,  for  the  gray  hairs  about  his  muzzle  and  his  long  hollow 
flanks  plainly  showed  that  he  had  seen  many  and  evil  days.  He  was 
of  the  breed  commonly  called  "  wolf,"  his  body  was  covered  with 
coarse,  bristling  hair,  and  his  long  nose  and  pointed,  alert  ears  gave 
him  an  mtelligent  and  inquisitive  look  in  spite  of  his  drooping  tail 
and  spiritless  walk.  Without  looking  to  the  right  or  left  he  followed 
closely  on  the  heels  of  the  children,  occasionally  sniffing  at  a  bag 
which  hung  over  the  boy's  shoulder.  When  they  slackened  their  pace 
to  glance  into  a  shop-window  or  to  make  room  for  a  passer,  the  dog 
also  stopped,  while  he  eyed  the  bag  wistfully,  a  few  drops  of  water 
now  and  then  falling  from  his  mouth  on  the  pavement. 

The  boy,  from  time  to  time,  glanced  down  at  the  patient  creature, 
smihng  while  he  reached  out  a  thin  brown  hand  to  pat  his  head  fondly. 


3  X  tOINETTE'S   PHILIP 

..  Homo  smells  my  lunch.     It 's  no  use,  I  -""  f "P -;,'»f  ^^^'^^ 
some,"  he  said  at  last,  placing  on  a  door-step  near  h.m  a  tray 
flowers  which  he  was  carefully  carrymg. 

Hwasaha„dsomeboy,m.e^^^^^^^^^^^^^ 

IX  hTir^' He  was  S  b-"  orly  Cad  in  a  blue  shirt,  and 

his  straight  dark  eyebrows.     The  little  girl  w  1 

was  an  uncommon  and  picturesque  figure.     A  dark  J«"rocK 
Itraieht  to  her  heels,  a  white  muslin  scarf  crossed  m  front  was  tied 
beW^d  t^e  long  ends  almost  touching  the  pavement  when  ^he  wa  ke 
her  very  thick  black  hair  was  -' "/.y^^'^'tu^eThief  knotted 

Ind  her  small  firmly  closed  mouth  seemed  never  to  have  smiled.     On 

ortPr«;  taken  from  the  stories  of  Victor  Hugo.     Ihat  they  were  v 
5^:Sr-^L--prSetd-^-t 

''^^'renrbSlppedandputdownhUtrayoffl^^^^^^^^^^^ 

hlossom.  roses  and  vi..ets,^he^oos.^^^^^^^^^ 
the  steps,  drawmg,  as  she  did  so,  a  micK  pap 

'"  '''^L'Z  Wstr  :^X  he  proceeded  to  un^tsten  the 


p  and  give  him 
him  a  tray  of 

for  his  age,  with 
ires,  and  curhng 
blue  shirt,  and 
)vered  a  portion 
shead  just  above 
ccompanied  him 
k  red  frock  fell 
in  front  was  tied 
vhen  she  walked, 
1  mane  over  her 
kerchief  knotted 
was  as  white  and 
r  large,  were  in- 
ter drooping  lids, 
[lave  smiled.     On 
ked  in  soft  paper, 
I  beautifully  mod- 
er,  •'  Dea  and  the 
represented  char- 
"hat  they  were  of 
le  careful  way  she 
md  solicitude  she 

)f  flowers,  orange- 
iced  her  basket  on  I 
sr  the  little  figures 

ed  to  unfasten  the 


TOINETTE's  PHILIP  '  '  3 

bag,  smiling  all  the  time  at  the  old  dog  who  pressed  close  to  him,  his 
sunken  eyes  full  of  expectation. 

"  Don't  be  in  a  hurry,  Homo;  don't  be  in  a  hurry,"  he  said,  gently. 
"  You  shall  have  your  breakfast.  I  made  Mammy  Toinette  put  in 
plenty  of  bread.     I  knew  you  'd  be  hungry ;  I  knew  you  would." 


PHILIP,  DEA,  AND    "HOMO. 


The  little  girl,  with  her  hands  tightly  clasped,  stood  looking  on 
almost  as  anxiously  as  the  dog.  Suddenly  the  boy  fixed  his  eyes  on 
her  mquiringly,  and  his  face  flushed  to  his  forehead. 

"  Did  you  have  anything  to  eat  before  you  came  out,  Dea— now 
tell  me  the  truth,  did  you  ?  "  he  asked,  earnestly. 


'-■imtifliffn 


m 


4  TOINETTE'S    PHILIP 

The  child  turned  paler,  if  possible,  and  looked  away  evasively, 

but  made  no  reply. 

"  Tell  me  now,  Dea,  quick !     I  sha'n't  give  Homo  a  mouthful  till 

you  tell  me." 

"  I  did  n't  want  anything  to  eat,  Philip,"  she  said,  tremulously. 

"  Pauv'  papa  had  one  of  his  bad  spells." 

"  And  you  did  n't  sleep  any  last  night.     I  can  tell  by  your  looks 

that  you  did  n't."  ,,     ,    n    •  u 

"  Not  much,"  she  replied,  sighing.  "  Pauv'  papa  walked  all  night. 
I  think  he  was  in  pain.     I  could  n't  sleep  when  he  was  suffering." 

"  You  could  n't,  of  course,"  said  the  boy,  soothingly.  "  But  never 
mind  now,  Dea— eat  some  breakfast  and  give  Homo  some.  You  like 
Mammy's  fried  chicken— and  I  've  enough  for  all  of  us." 

And  as  the  boy  spoke  he  unfolded  a  clean  white  napkin  and  dis- 
played some  squares  of  corn  bread  and  a  quantity  of  chicken  fried 
crisp  and  brown.  "  Take  all  you  want  "—and  he  held  it  out  invitingly. 
"  I  '11  give  some  to  Homo,"  said  the  girl,  taking  a  piece  of  the 
chicken  with  the  tips  of  her  slender  fingers  and  offering  it  to  the  old 
dog,  who  swallowed  it  without  the  least  attempt  to  chew  it,  sighing 
contentedly  as  it  did  so. 

While  the  girl  and  the  dog  were  eating,  the  boy  uncovered 
the  basket,  and  taking  out  one  by  one  the  small  figures,  looked 
at  them  admiringly,  turning  them  to  blow  off  an  occasional  speck 

of  dust.  .ITU 

'« They  're  as  natural  as  life,  Dea,"  he  said,  encouragingly.  "  1  hope 
you  '11  sell  one  to-day.  You  have  n't  sold  one  since  Mardi  Gras,  have 
you  ?  It  must  be  the  rainy  weather  that  has  kept  people  out  of  the 
streets ;  but  now  it 's  cleared  off  Rue  Royale  will  be  full  of  strangers, 
and  you  '11  be  sure  to  sell  one  to-day." 

"  Oh,  I  hope  so,  Philip,  for  pauv'  papa's  sake,"  replied  the  girl  as 
she  gave  her  last  crumb  of  bread  to  the  dog.   "  He  has  n't  any  money, 


an( 
hei 


don 


jrUtT 


besi 

hav( 

It 

Man 

It 

into 

(I 

retui 
you 

wher 

had  ( 

<< 

as  pi 
mons 


iway  evasively, 

a  mouthful  till 

;d,  tremulously. 

II  by  your  looks 

ralked  all  night, 
as  suffering." 
y.     •'  But  never 
iome.     You  like 
us." 

napkin  and  dis- 
of  chicken  fried 
it  out  invitingly. 
r  a  piece  of  the 
•ing  it  to  the  old 
chew  it,  sighing 

boy  uncovered 
I  figures,  looked 
occasional  speck 

afingly.    "  I  hope 

Vlardi  Gras,  have 

aeople  out  of  the 

full  of  strangers, 

3plied  the  girl  as  | 
as  n't  any  money, 


TOINETTE'S    PHILIP  5 

and  he 's  so  unhappy  when  he  has  n't  any  money."     Then  she  covered 
her  face  with  her  hands  and  began  to  cry  silently 

"  Don't,  Dea,  don't  cry,"  said  the  boy  gendy,  as  he  took  up  his 
ray  of  flowers  and  the  child's  basket  as  well.     •'  Come  on,  let 's  hurry 
Grande  Sel.ne  will  be  back  to-day,  and  she  's  sure  to  bring  you  some 

"  But  if  she  /.  «V  there,  Philip,  what  shall  I  do  ?  Pauv^  papa  had 
no  supper  last  night  and  there  's  no  breakfast  for  him  this  morning. 
I  ought  to  have  taken  him  the  bread  and  chicken  you  gave  me 
Homo  and  I  could  have  waited.  I  was  n't  so  hungry,  because  I  Tad 
your  lunch  yesterday.  Now  it 's  gone ;  we  have  eaten  it.  and  pZ 
papa  has  nt  any.  •« //^wi/ 

"Take  the  rest  of  my  lunch.  Dea,"  said  the  boy,  stoutly.  '<  I 
don  t  want  it,  I  can  wait  till  night.  Mammy  Toinette  promised  me 
gumbo  for  supper."  Fiumibcu  me 

The  litde  girl  smiled  faintly  through  her  tears  as  she  trotted  on 
beside  her  friend,  who  still  carried  her  basket.  "Gumbo!  how  nice  to 
have  gumbo  for  supper !  "  she  said,  with  a  soft  sigh 

M.Zv'  ''  ^f"^  ^'"^  P''"'y  '^^"'"'"  ""^P"^^  h^*-  companion;  "and 
Mammy  would  give  you  some  if  you  'd  go  home  with  me." 

info  .n'^^'         '^'.  ^^^^  ^''''^^  ^^  ^"^'y=  "^^  "^^^'-  a»ows  me  to  go 
into  any  house,  and  he  never  has  any  one  to  visit  him." 

rZrrlfZ  t"^  ^^  f^f  "°  '"''"^>'  ^"^  ^^^^  "''  ^^"  "^°^«  J»«le  images." 
returned  the  boy.  with  some  show  of  anger.     "  If  he  made  friends 
you  would  not  have  to  go  hungry."  "^  menas, 

-Pauv^  papa."  sighed  the  child.  "  he 's  so  ill  and  unhappy.  He  cried 
when  he  put  Quasimodo  in  the  basket ;  he  said  it  was  the  best  figure  he 
had  ever  modeled-that  it  was  a  work  of  art.  and  worth  a  greafdeal" 
A  work  of  art.    repeated  the  boy.  scornfully.    "  It 's  not  half 
l^r  ''^'""^'^''^  -^  ^-  ^-^-     It  's  an  u'gly.  crooked  ^ 


,.''i<,'»KW"»'*i'«i»  I*  ^"x  jM»w»i»m« 


5  TOINETTE's    PHILIP 

"Well,  Quasimodo  was  like  that,"  returned  Dea.  with  some  spirit. 
.«  Papa  has  often  read  to  me  about  him  :  he  was  carillonneur  of  Notre 

""'"ot  y-"l  know.     You  've  told  me  all  about  him.  don;t  you  re- 
member ?     But  I  like  Esmeralda  best.     I  'm  sure  you  '11  sell  t^smeralda 

^''''  I  hope  so ;  pauv'  papa  said  I  must  sell  something  to-day.     If  I 
don't,  Philip,  I'm  sure  he  will  walk  again  to-night. 

"  Well  let 's  hurry  then,"  cried  Philip,  quickenmg  his  steps.  If 
Grande  Seline  is  there,  sheJU  help  us  to  find  a  customer;  and  she 
promised  to  be  there  to-day." 


iiili 


..i&mmmmmmHiBm^aimitmi 


ith  some  spirit. 
nneur  of  Notre 

1,  don't  you  re- 
l  sell  Esmeralda 

g  to-day.     If  I 

his  steps.     "  If 
itomer ;  and  she 


O 


Chapter  II 

GRANDE   SELINE 

*  * 

H,  there  's  Grande  Seline  !  "  cried  Philip,  joyfully,  as  they  drew 

'    near  the  old  Union  Bank,  not  far  from  Canal  street.    "  She  "s 

setting  up  her  stand  now." 

"  Yes,  there  she  is !  "  exclaimed  Dea,  starting  into  a  swift  run 

toward  a  stout  laughing  mulattress,  who  was  standing  near  a  table 

under  the  portico  of  the  Bank,  tying  a  white  apron  around  her  thick 

waist. 

"  Oh,  honey,"  she  gurgled  as  she  clasped  the  child  tight    "  Oh 
honey,  how  glad  I  is  ter  see  yer~an'  Mars'  Philip,  too !— how  you  's 
both  done  growed  since  I 's  been  gone." 

"  And  how  thin  you  've  got,  Seline,"  returned  Philip,  his  blue  eyes 
sparklmg  with  merriment.  -  You  've  lost  flesh  going  to  the  country  to 
your  cousin's  wedding." 

"  My,  my,  jes'  hear  dat  boy !  Do  yer  think  I 's  slimmer,  Ma'mselle 
Uea  ?  "  and  she  looked  complacently  at  her  fat  sides  as  she  smoothed 
the  folds  of  her  starched  apron.     "  An'  what 's  you  chil'run  been  er- 

MaWlle  ?  "^'^  ''""^  ^^^  ^  '^  ^^^"  ^""^^ '    ^"'  ^""^  '"  y^'^'^^^'  P^P^' 

"  He  's  very  bad,  Seline ;  he  don't  sleep,"  returned  Dea,  si^hine 
sadly.  *•      ^ 

"My,  my,  honey,  I 's  sorry  ter  hear  sech  bad  newses,"  said  Seline 
with  sympathy.  "  An'  is  yer  done  sole  any  yer  little  images  while  I 's 
gone  ter  der  weddin'  ?  " 

"  No,  Seline,  not  one.  Pauv'  papa  's  finished  Quasimodo.  I  've 
got  him  in  my  basket ;  I'm  to  sell  him  for  five  dollars." 


-^^attfetgnaera?-   -mir. 


8 


TOINETTES   PHILIP 


li 


mi 
I 


m-^ 


-  Well,  honey,  ef  yer  want  ter  sell  him  yer  got  ter  stan  him  out 
where  people  '11  see  him  ;  't  ain't  no  use  ter  keep  ^^'^^ ^^^r"^ ^ Villi 
basket  I  m  goin'  ter  give  yer  a  corner  of  my  table,  and  G  and. 
SeUne  swept  aside  her  pile  of  fruits  and  cakes,  sm.hng  benevolently 

''  '^'utthTdust.  Seline  !-papa  does  n't  like  them  to  get  dusty." 

..  Never  mind  der  dust,  chile  ;  it  '11  blow  off.  It  s  der  money  we 
want,  an  I  don't  see  how  yer  goin  ter  sell  dat  pore  httk  crooked 
image."  and  Seline  looked  doubtfully  at  the  work  of  art  as  Dea  disen- 
cumbered it  of  its  wrappings,  and  stood  it  as  far  away  as  possib  c 
from  a  generous  pile  of  pralines.  "  Now.  dat  little  one  wUh  the  goat 
is  right  peart-lookin'.  an'  it 's  strange  yer  don  t  sell  it        ^  ^ 

"You  see.  it 's  rained  ever  since  you  went  away,  Seline,  and  there  s 
been  no  strangers  in  the  streets,"  said  Philip,  coming  forward  to  move 
Quasimodo  a  little  more  into  the  shadow  of  one  of  the  fluted  columns 
S  decorate  the  facade  of  the  old  Bank.  "  If  t  had  n't  been  for 
funerals  and  weddings.  Mammy  would  n't  have  sold  any  flower.  I  - 
been  here  every  day  since  you  went  to  the  country,  ^nd  I  have  nt 

sold  a  dozen  boutonniires"  n       „.  ^„ 

.  Dafs  'cause  yer  did  nt  have  my  table  ter  show  yer  flowers  on 
Mars' Philip.     No  one  don't  notice  little  creturshke  you  IS     It  take, 
an  de  woln  like  1  is  ter  get  customers,"  said  Grande  Sehne,;huck^ 
Ung  and  shaking  her  fat  sides,  as  she  arranged  Phd.ps  flower  and 
sprinkled  them  lightly  from  a  can  of  water      "  A"  dat  ok  dog  »o 
he  knows  1  's  back  ;  he 's  dun  tuk  his  same  place  under  d.s  yer  table, 
les'lookattheporecretur;  he's  ter  home,  shore. 
^     .Yes,  Homo 's  glad  you  're  back,  Seline,  and  so  are  we,    sa.d 
PhiUri  aning  over'the  table  and  smiling  up  into  the  kmd  dusky 
face.     ■•  I  don't  know  which  of  us  has  missed  you  most,  but  I  thmk 

^^'  Pore  chile,"  and  the  old  woman  glanced  fondly  at  the  little  girl. 


tli( 


•III  I 


TOINETTK'S    PHILIP 


•  Stan'  him  out 
vered  up  in  yer 
,"  and  G/andc 
g  benevolently 

3  get  dusty." 
der  money  we 
:  little  crooked 
t  as  Dea  disen- 
vay  as  possible 
e  with  the  goat 

ine,  and  there 's 
orward  to  move 
2  fluted  columns 
lad  n't  been  for 
y  flowers.  I  've 
land  I  have  n't 

J  yer  flowers  on, 
pu  is.  It  takes 
le  Seline,  chuck- 
lip's  flowers  and 
dat  ole  dog,  too, 
ler  dis  yer  table. 

so  are  we,"  said 

the  kind,  dusky 

Tiost,  but  I  think 

at  the  little  girl. 


<'  I  s  thought  heaps  about  yer  boaf,  an*  I 's  glad  I  's  back.  Yer  ain't 
had  yer  scarf  washed  since  I  's  gone,  is  yer,  honey  ?  Well,  jes'  slip  it 
off  when  yer  go  home  an"  I  'II  bring  it  ter  yer  clean  in  der  mornin'. 
;\n'  see  what  I  got  in  my  basket  fer  yer  supper  ter-night,"  making  a 
little  pantomime  to  Philip  as  she  took  out  a  package  folded  in  a  clean 
napkin.  "A  half  a  chicken  I  done  brought  from  the  country,  some 
flour  bread,  an*  a  slice  of  dat  cheese  yer  pauv'  papa  likes  ;  an' jes*  look 
at  dis  yere,  chil'run,  some  of  der  weddin'-cake  fer  yer.  It 's  fine  cake. 
Dat  cousin  knows  how  ter  make  cake  ;  her  ole  Miss'  learned  her.  Now 
ain't  dat  dar  pretty  cake  as  yer  ever  seed  ?  " 

"Oh,  oh,  Seline,  is  n't  it  nice!"  cried  both  children  at  once,  —  "and 
the  sugar  on  it  is  so  thick  and  white." 

"  Now,  you  jes'  eat  some,"  she  said,  handing  a  generous  slice  to 
each ;  "  an'  dis  what  's  left  is  part  fer  yer  panv  papa,  Ma'mselle,  an' 
part  fer  yer  mammy.  Mars'  Philip." 

"  Why,  Seline,  you  're  awful  good,"  cried  the  boy,  his  mouth  full  of 
cake.     "  I  told  Dea  you  'd  bring  us  something  from  the  country." 

"  May  I  keep  half  of  mine  for  to-morrow,  Seline  ?  "  asked  Dea, 
when  she  had  slowly  eaten  a  part  of  hers. 

"  Why,  yes,  chile,  if  yer  wants  ter ;  an'  jes'  take  dis  yer  bundle  of 
chicken  an'  put  it  in  der  bottom  of  yer  basket  fer  yer  supper." 

Dea  took  the  package  with  trembling  hands  and  glistening  eyes. 
"  Oh,  Seline,  how  good  you  are !  Pauv'  papa  will  be  so  glad,"  she 
whispered. 

"  Yes,  I  knows,  honey,  I  knows;  an'  I  'm  goin'  ter  sell  one  of  dem 
little  images  fer  yer  papa  dis  yere  day,  er  my  name  ain't  Seline.  I 
ain't  been  right  yere  in  dis  place  since  endurin'  the  war  fer  nothin'. 
My  ole  Mars'  what  was  pres'dent  of  dis  yer  bank — yer  see,  chil'run,  it 
use  ter  be  a  bank  full  of  money  afore  der  war — he  done  tole  me  I 
I  could  set  up  my  stan'  yere ;  he  say :  '  Seline,  you  '11  make  yer  fortune 
yere.'    Well,  I  ain't  made  no  fortune,  but  I  's  done  made  right  smart, 


ys^'^tftaaagg'yytf^jS 


f 


11 


ill 


% 


10 


TOINHTTHS    PHILIP 


an"  now  I 's  jjot  plenty  to  do  a  little  fer  you,  honey,  what  ain't  got  no 
ma,  only  a  pauv  sick  papa,  so  I  's  ^join'  ter  help  yer  sell  yer  littlv 
images.  Yer  tired  an'  sleepy,  chile  ;  jes  drap  down  on  my  little  stool 
an'  take  a  nap  in  der  shade,  an'  I  '11  look  out  for  customers." 

Dea  did  not  wait  for  a  second  invitation  to  sleep.  Her  poor  little 
head  ached,  and  her  eyes  were  heavy  from  her  nights'  vigils,  so  she 
sank  down  contentedly  in  Seline's  broad  shadow,  and,  resting  her  pale 
face  against  the  good  woman's  clean  apron,  she  slept  as  peacefully  as 
did  the  old  dog  at  her  feet ;  and  Philip,  perched  on  the  base  of  one  of 
the  massive  columns,  swung  his  bare  brown  legs  and  whistled  softly, 
while  he  waited  for  the  customer  promised  by  Seline  with  so  much 
confidence. 


ti 


what  ain't  jjot  no 
yer  sell  yer  littl;- 
I  on  my  little  stool 
itomers." 

p.  Her  poor  little 
jhts'  vigils,  so  slu; 
d,  resting  her  pale 
3t  as  peacefully  as 
the  base  of  one  of 
nd  whistled  softly, 
line  with  so  much 


Chapter  III 

now    TMKY    HKCAMK    AC(JUAINTF.D 

SoMi:  ten  or  twelve  years  before  the  beginning  of  this  story,  when 
drande  Seline  had  established  her  lunch-stand  under  the  portico 
'  of  the  Union  Hank,  the  handsome  structure  was  used  for  the 
purpose  indicated  by  the  name  cut  in  large  letters  on  the  stone  facade ; 
hut  the  civil  war  and  numerous  unfortunate  financial  changes  had 
abolished  the  business,  and  the  fine  old  building  had  degenerated 
from  its  dignified  position  into  a  second-class  theater  or  variety-show. 
On  the  massive  fluted  columns  hung  huge  colored  posters  and  against 
tin;  gray  old  walls  were  fastened  tall  boards  covered  with  ludicrous 
pictures  of  dancing  dogs,  Chinese  jugglers,  and  absurd  caricatures, 
set  forth  in  glaring  colors  in  order  to  attract  the  attention  of  the  com- 
mon people.  Where  formerly  grave,  black-coated  financiers  passed 
in  and  out,  now  lounged  a  motley  crowd  to  read  the  playbills  or  scan 
the  grotesque  pictures,  jesting  and  laughing  as  they  elbowed  and 
jostled  one  another.  Among  them  were  some  of  the  better  class,  who 
Hngered  near  Seline's  .stand  in  the  corner  of  the  portico  to  drink  a 
glass  of  her  cold  lemonade  or  to  eat  some  of  her  fresh  pralines,  crisp 
and  toothsome,  with  the  nuts  showing  thickly  through  their  glossy 
coats.  And  beside  her  sweets,  in  a  clean  basket  carefully  covered 
with  a  fresh  napkin,  were  dainty  sandwiches  of  French  rolls  filled  with 
chicken  or  ham,  and  the  lightest  and  whitest  of  sponge  cake  liberally 
coated  with  sugar.  In  the  old  days  it  was  the  custom  of  the  busy 
cfificials  of  the  Bank  to  snatch  a  hasty  lunch  from  Seline's  basket,  and 
j  to  wash  it  down  with  a  glass  of  her  delicious  lemonade.     Now  it  was 

M 


i3' 


--Mtarfjiuililliijf'Wg 


,.-J»>*ilU«ri»?»Wi>'."''J>'^'i"sft'ww«awj*aj^.tf-^gB-w' 


*'i'!i  ■ 


. 


li 


li 
li 

I 


12 


TOINETTE'S   PHILIP 


another  class  that  patronized  her;  still  the  quality  of  her  vrares 
etained  the'san,.  Lrefore  she  always  had  ^^J^^^'^^^''^ 
,h^  habitues  of  the  theater,  and  in  the  course  of  all  these  years 
Lid  saved  up°a  snug  little  sun,,  and  could  well  afford  to  be  generous 

"'  "Two  or  three  years  before,  when  Philip  had  first  made  his  appear- 

Ter  hett  at  on  e      From  that  day'she  fook  him  under  her  especal 
care  and  PhMp's  fresh,  fragrant  flowers  always  found  a  shady  corner 

°"  'tttlfafter  these  friendly  relations  began,  the  boy  app-f, 
,  -.u  ,  „,1»  ..ad  pved  little  girl,  dressed  m  a  shabby  black 
one  day  with  a  pale  f^^nCket  in  which  were  a  few  exquisitely 
'"t  r/  rX^es  He  int^duced  hTs  companion  with  great  confi- 
Tntft    G    nSne^^king  it  for  granted  that  the  kindly  woman 

::ir:s:ir  ^:^i^^r^^  - - 

--a ?on=ii:a:  at^r  f  U  go.  ernt...  .. 

PhUipfast  met  the  litde  girl  on  Ursulines  street.  She  was  ,n 
„eat  ^t^uble  an  overfed  bulldog  had  attacked  Homo  when  he  wa^ 
very  hrgry,  and  consequently  very  weak,  and  though  the  poor  o^d 
very  h-ng-J'  \  ^^out  to  be  "  the  under  dog  m  the 

Tefuge  in  instant  flight,  followed  by  the  l.ttle  g.rl,  who,  m  her  exc.te 


,iiirt»ite**s«** ' 


^ 


TOINETTE  S   PHILIP 


13 


^  of  her  wares 
;  custom  among 
these  years  she 
I  to  be  generous 

Tiade  his  appear- 
ngering  near  her 
e's  attention  was 
ot  more  than  six 
sant  chatter  won 
ider  her  especial 
id  a  shady  corner 

he  boy  appeared 
1  a  shabby  black 
a  few  exquisitely 
\  with  great  confi- 
the  kindly  woman 
tion  she  so  freely 
Seline  took  the 

is  good  ernuff,  but 
use  to  Philip,  who 
interest  in  Dea. 
:reet.     She  was  in 
iomo  when  he  was 
ough  the  poor  old 
under  dog  in  the 
labored  the  enemy 
,  while  Homo  took  | 
who,  in  her  excite- 


ment, left  her  basket  pn  the  banquette.  Philip,  after  he  had  driven  the 
bulldog  into  a  near  yard  and  closed  the  gate  upon  him,  picked  up 
the  neglected  property  and  ran  after  the  owner. 

Poor  little  thing,  she  was  frightened  and  breathless,  x)ut  she 
stopped  to  thank  her  deliverer,  between  her  sobs,  while  she  grasped 
the  dog's  collar  with  both  trembling  hands. 

"  It  was  n't  Homo's  fault,"  she  explained,  in  rapid  French.  "  The 
other  dog  began  it.  Homo  's  old  and  hungry,  but  he  's  got  lots  of 
spirit,  and  he  won't  bear  an  insult.  The  dog  was  rude  to  Homo,  and 
he  could  n't  help  fighting." 

"I  know,"  returned  Philip.  "I  don't  blame  your  dog;  he  could  n't 
help  standing  up  to  a  saucy  beast  like  that." 

His  ready  sympathy,  and  sensible  appreciation  of  Homo's  self- 
respect,  won  the  little  girl's  confidence  at  once,  and  from  that  day  they 
were  fast  friends.  She  was  very  reticent,  and  Philip,  with  inborn 
delicacy,  did  not  question  her  much ;  but  from  her  remarks  he  learned 
that  she  lived  on  Villere  street,  that  her  mother  was  dead,  and  that 
her  father  was  an  artist  en  cite,  and  that  he  modeled  the  pretty  little 
figures  which  she  tried  to  sell  from  house  to  house. 

"  Pmiv  pa.pa.  is  always  ill,"  she  explained,  in  a  grave,  soft  little 
voice.  "  His  head  hurts  him,  and  he  can't  sleep  at  night;  and  since 
mama  died  he  never  sees  any  one,  and  never  goes  out  in  the  day ;  he 
says  the  light  hurts  him.  Sometimes  he  goes  out  in  the  evening  and 
stays  a  long  time.  I  don't  know  where  he  goes,  but  I  think  it  is  to 
the  cimeti^re,  to  mama's  grave." 

Philip's  bright  face  clouded ;  he  felt  like  crying  with  the  child,  but 
he  said  bravely:  "  I  wish  you  'd  come  with  me  up  on  Rue  Royale; 
you  'd  have  a  better  chance.  I  've  a  friend  there  who  has  a  stand ;  her 
name  is  Grande  Seline ;  she  '11  help  you  sell  your  little  figures." 
j  Dea  gratefully  accepted  the  kindly  invitation,  and  having  the 
good  fortune  to  win  Seline's  affection  at  first  sight,  the  child  found  a 


ii:M" 


!:!:■:■ 


14  TOINETTE'S   PHILIP 

faithful  friend,  who  cared  for  her  in  many  ways  with  remarkable  ten- 
derness and  devotion.  if. 

Every  day,  in  rain  or  shine,  the  handsome  boy  and  the  sad-faced 
little  girl  could  be  found  near  Seline,  while  their  wares  occupied  a  part 
of  her  table,  under  which  Homo  slept  soundly-a  weary  animal,  who 
at  last  had  found  a  secure  and  peaceful  haven  of  rest. 

The  first  break  in  this  pleasant  arrangement  was  when  behne 
went  for  a  few  weeks  into  the  country  to  be  present  at  the  wedding 
of  a  dusky  kinswoman.  Now  she  had  returned,  much  to  the  delight 
of  the  children,  who  entered  upon  their  former  relations  with  the  ut- 
most confidence  and  security. 


!   i 


'I', 
I'll 


iiiiiii 


in  I 
1'  III 


I  h 


m 


11 


emarkable  ten- 


id  the  sad-faced 
occupied  a  part 
ary  animal,  who 

as  when  Seline 

at  the  wedding 

;h  to  the  delight 

ons  with  the  ut- 


Chapter  IV 


LILYBEL 


POOR  little  Dea  slept  peacefully,  safe  under  Seline's  friendly  sha- 
dow, and  Philip  whistled  merrily  now  that  his  burden  of  care 
had  fallen  on  broader  and  stronger  shoulders ;  and  while  Dea 
slept,  and  Philip  whistled,  Seline  drowsed  in  the  soft  spring  air,  slowly 
waving  her  bunch  of  peacock  feathers  to  keep  off  the  flies.  This  she 
did  quite  mechanically,  whether  her  eyes  were  open  or  closed,  and  it 
served  a  good  purpose  in  keeping  pilfering  fingers  away  from  her 
sweets,  as  well  as  banishing  the  obtrusive  winged  creatures  that 
hovered  above  her;  for  Seline  was  often  in  the  land  of  dreams  when 
her  feathers  were  waving  back  and  forth  with  rythmic  precision. 

On  this  day  she  slept  with  one  eye  open,  for  she  was  on  the  look- 
out for  a  suitable  owner  for  Esmeralda  or  Quasimodo.     "  It 's  'bout 
^  time  fer  strangers  ter  come  erlong,"  she  said  to  herself,  "  an'  I  knows 
er  stranger  soon  's  I  set  eyes  on  one ;  dey  's  der  ones  what  buys  dem 
I  little  images." 

Suddenly  both  eyes  opened  wide,  and  Seline  straightened  up  and 
I  looked  toward  Canal  street. 

"  Sure  's  I  's  born,  dar  's  dat  Lilybel  er  comin'.  What  dat  boy  er 
jcomin'  yere  dis  time  er  day  fur  ?— did  n't  I  sont  him  on  der  levee,  an' 
hole  him  ter  stay  dar  till  he  done  sole  all  what  he  got  in  his  basket?" 

Philip  stopped  whistling,  and  turned  amused  eyes  toward  Lilybel, 
Iwho  slowly  approached,  looking  very  sheepish.  He  was  a  mite  of  a 
Idarky,  as  black  and  glossy  as  a  rubber  shoe,  with  large  whites  to  his 
Ibead-like  eyes,  and  teeth  that  glistened  like  grains  of  new  corn.    His 


»s 


i6 


TOINETTE'S   PHILIP 


Mr-' 


\A 


sunburned  hair  stood  off  from  his  head  as  though  he  were  in  a  state 
of  chronic  fright,  and  his  broad  mouth  was  stretched  almost  from  ear 
to  ear  in  a  mirth-provoicing  grin;  his  body  was  round  and  fat,  and 
from  his  short,  crooked  legs  his  large  feet  stood  out  at  right  angles. 
One  ragged  suspender  over  a  torn  dirty  shirt  held  up  a  muddy  bundle 
of  breeches,  the  ragged  legs  of  which  were  rolled  close  to  his  thighs. 
Altogether  he  looked  more  like  a  small  scarecrow  than  a  member 
of  the  human  family,  and  had  it  not  been  for  his  rolling  eyes  and 
broad  grin,  Lilybel  would  have  deceived  the  wisest  old  crow  m  a 

corn-field.  .  ,    ,  „     •    ,  c  r      • 

"  Now,  jes  look  at  dat  boy,— ain't  he  er  sight  ?  cried  Seline  in  a 
shrill  voice,  a  voice  cultivated  expressly  for  Lilybel.  "  I  done  sont  him 
out  clean  an'  peart  dis  mornin',  an'  now  yere  he  is.  all  muddy  and 
frazzled.  I  suttenly  knows  he  's  er  been  roUin'  down  der  levee  with 
jes'  sich  triflin'  chil'run  like  he  self.  Come  yere,"  and  she  thrust  out  a 
threatening  hand,  which  Lilybel  adroitly  dodged;  "  come  yere.  I  say, 

afore  I  slap  yer  head  off." 

Lilybel  paid  no  attention  to  his  mother's  startling  threat,  but  skil- 
fully kept  out  of  reach,  until  he  wormed  himself  behind  the  column 
where  Philip  sat  laughing,  in  spite  of  Seline's  trouble;  and  there,  m 
an  excellent  position  for  dodging  a  stray  shot,  he  looked  out.  grin- 
ning defiantly.  .      .      . ,     ,         u 
.'  Is  yer  goin'  ter  come  yere,"  cried  Seline,  quite  oeside  herself. 
"  les'let  me  get  my  han'  on  yer,"  and  she  jumped  up  so  suddenly 
that  she  dropped  her  bunch  of  feathers  in  her  jar  of  lemonade,  while 
she  nearly  overturned  Dea,  who  awoke  startled  and  confused  at  the 
fracas      And  even  Homo  arose,  alerdy,  and  sniffed  the  air.   then 
turned  around  and  curled  himself  up  for  another  nap.     It  was  nothing 
—he  was  accustomed  to  these  scenes  between  Lilybel  and  Seline. 
••  Does  yer  hear  me  ?     Come  yere  an'  tell  me  what  yer  done  with  yer  i 
basket "  and  leaning  across  the  table  in  a  frantic  effort  to  grab  the 


'^ 


I 


were  in  a  state 
ilmost  from  ear 
nd  and  fat,  and 
at  right  angles. 
1  muddy  bundle 
ie  to  his  thighs, 
than  a  member 
oiling  eyes  and 
:  old  crow  in  a 


;ried  Seline  in  a 
I  done  sont  him 

all  muddy  and 
I  der  levee  with 

she  thrust  out  a 
ome  yere,  I  say, 

I  threat,  but  skil- 
hind  the  column 
le;  and  there,  in 
ooked  out,  grin- 

i  beside  herself. 

up  so  suddenly 

lemonade,  while 

I  confused  at  the 

2d  the  air,   then 

It  was  nothing 

ybel  and  Seline. 

er  done  with  yer 

ffort  to  grab  the 


'./// 


:i 


l!   / 


l!       I 


'S:: 


I',:    I 
ii]' 


t   ^    J. 


^i^K 


ri,iH,;)  '> 


\^^ 


lH^u 


ULYBEL  COULD  NOT  RESIST  SCRAMBLING  FOR  SOME  OF  THB  NUTS,  AND  SELINE  CAUGHT  HIM." 


It.i%l2.  -^.'-^-X'^'^^-Z 


m 


c 
a 

V 

li 
s 

€ 
C 

c 


ill  '■ 


t'i 


t 


I,,.' 


TOINETTES    PHILIP 


19 


culprit,  Seline  came  near  sending  Quasimodo  to  sudden  and  irrepar- 
able ruin,  while  she  scattered  a  shower  of  pecans  over  the  pavement. 
Lilybel  could  not  resist  scrambling  for  some  of  the  nuts,  and 
while  intent  on  his  hunt,  his  mother  caught  him  by  the  remnant  of 
his  shirt,  and  dragged  him  up  before  a  terrible  and  pitiless  tribunal. 
Finding  himself  a  prisoner  beyond  hope  of  escape,  Lilybel,  as- 
suming^ an  injured  expression,  declared  with  a  mournful  rolling  of  his 
eyes,  "  dat  he  had  n't  done  nofin',  on'y  jes'  tumbled  in  der  ruver  an' 
got  fished  out  when  he  was  mos'  drownded." 

"  An'  whar  's  yer  basket  ? — what  yer  done  with  yer  basket  ?  "  cried 
Seline,  shaking  Lilybel  so  energetically  that  he  looked  like  a  bundle 
of  tatters  in  a  strong  wind. 

'•  It  's  done  los'  in  der  ruver,"  mumbled  Lilybel,  rolling  his  eyes 
and  sniffling. 

"  Los'  in  der  ruver,"  repeated  Seline,  slowly.  •*  Now,  chile,  yer 
is  n't  tellin'  der  trufe,  an*  yer  knows  I  won't  have  no  boys  a-tellin'  me 
lies.  I  '11  wear  dat  peach-tree  switch  out  on  yer  dis  night  ef  yer  don't 
tell  der  trufe." 

"  It 's  der  trufe,  ma,  es  sure  as  I  is  a-stan'in'  yere,"  returned  Lily- 
bel, stoutly.     •'  I  done  los'  it  in  der  ruver." 

"  How  cum  yer  los'  it  in  der  ruver? — tell  me,  how  cum  yer  los'  it 
dar  ?  "  and  Seline  emphasized  her  question  with  another  shake,  which 
made  Lilybel's  teeth  chatter,  while  a  shower  of  muddy  water  flew  from 
his  rags  all  over  his  mother's  white  apron. 

"  It 's  dis  yere  way  I  los'  it,"  gasped  Lilybel,  hastening  to  explain. 
"  I  done  went  on  er  plank,  whar  dem  rousterbouts  is  a  wheelin*  coal 
on  a  big  steamer,  an'  jes*  es  I  was  er  showin'  my  cakes,  a  big  feller  run 
inter  me  an'  push  me  flop  inter  der  ruver.  An*,  ma,  I  was  nearly 
drownded— r  I  was  nearly  dade,"  cried  Lilybel,  growing  pathetic,  as  he 
approached  the  climax ;  "  I  done  cum  up  der  las'  time,  when  er  rouster- 
bout  grab  me  an*  pull  me  out." 


20 


TOINETTES    PHILIP 


^ 


"  I  won'er  ef  yer  h  er  tellin*  me  der  trufe,  Lilybel  ? "  questioned 
Seline,  doubtfully,  as  she  relaxed  her  grasp  a  little. 

"I  is,  ma— I  t's,"  and  Lilybel  rolled  his  eyes  and  twisted  his 
mouth  into  various  affirmative  contortions,  while  Seline  held  him  at 
arm's-length  and  examined  him  critically. 

"  It 's  no  use  ter  b'lieve  yer,  Lilybel.  I  jes'  got  ter  fin'  out  ef  yer 
did  fall  inter  der  ruver  an'  los*  yer  basket,"  continued  Seline,  solemnly  ; 
"  but  ef  yer  is  er  tellin'  der  trufe,  yer  suttenly  did  n't  have  mucA  in 
yer  basket  when  yer  done  los'  it,  'cause  yer  is  full  almos'  ter  burstin' 
wid  dem  cakes  an'  pralines.  Oh,  yer  is  a  triflin',  worryin'  chile,  an'  I 
has  gotter  use  der  rod  on  yer  plenty  'fore  I 's  done  with  yer.  Go  down 
dar  an'  curl  up  with  dat  ole  dog.  It 's  der  best  place  fer  yer,"  and 
with  a  sounding  slap  Seline  thrust  ti.j  culprit  under  the  table,  close  to 
Homo,  where,  with  a  satisfied  chuckle  he  nestled  down,  his  head  on 
the  dog,  and  in  a  few  moments  was  sleeping  as  soundly  and  irrespon- 
sibly as  the  animal  beside  him.        :;^ 

"  Now,  Mars'  Philip,  yer  see  wfiat  er  trial  I  's  got,"  said  Seline, 
turning  to  Philip  for  sympathy.  "  It  ain't  no  use  puttin'  conference 
in  Lilybel.  I  'spects  he  done  eat  dem  cakes  an'  pralines,  an'  frowed 
dat  basket  erway.  My  ^y,  he 's  goin'  ter  ruin  me  ef  I  lets  him  have 
er  basket.  How  cum  dat  boy 's  so  bad  ?  "  continued  Seline,  reflec- 
tively. "  An'  I  done  name  him  fer  his  two  litde  sisters  what 's  dade 
—two  peart  chil'run  as  yer  ever  did  see,  an'  jes'  es  sweet  an'  good  es 
Ma'mselle  Dea.    It 's  jes'  es  I  say :  gals  is  na'chly  good,  an'  boys  is 

na'chly  bad." 

-  Oh,  Seline,  I  'm  a  boy,"  interposed  Philip,  "  and  I  m  not  so  bad. 
"  No,  no,  honey,  yer  is  n't  bad ;  but  yer  white,  an'  white  boys  is 

different." 

'•  Only  think,  Seliite,  Lilybel  might  have  drowned, .  said  Uea, 
stJftly ;  "  then  how  sorry  you  would  have  been." 

"  Dat  boy  drownded ! — no,  no,  chile.    I  's  more  feared  he 's  born 


^M 


ybel?"  questioned 

:s  and  twisted  his 
Seline  held  him  at 

>t  ter  fin'  out  ef  yer 
d  Seline,  solemnly ; 
id  n't  have  much  in 
1  almos'  ter  burstin' 
worryin'  chile,  an'  I 
vith  yer.  Go  down 
place  fer  yer,"  and 
er  the  table,  close  to 
1  down,  his  head  on 
undly  and  irrespon- 

s  got,"  said  Seline, 
e  puttin'  conference 
pralines,  an'  frowed 
e  ef  I  lets  him  have 
inued  Seline,  reflec- 
sisters  what 's  dade 
is  sweet  an*  good  es 
ily  good,  an*  boys  is 

and  I  'm  not  so  bad." 
te,  an'  white  boys  is 

Irowned,".  said  Dea, 

ore  feared  he  *s  born 


TOINETTES    PHILIP  ^ 

ter  be  hanged,  'cause  Lilybel  's  mighty  manish,  an'  li     nin'  don  >.  do 
him  no  good.     I 's  got  heaps  ef  trouble  with  dat  boy. 

While  this  conversation  was  in  progress,  Seline  tidied  up  her 
table,  and  restored  Quasimodo  to  his  original  position,  still  intent,  in 
spite  of  Lilybel's  unexpected  interruption,  on  finding  a  customer. 

"  Dar  's  dat  stranger  what  useter  pass  yere  right  often  fer  flowers 
an'  pralines.  He  's  goin'  ter  buy  yer  little  image  if  he  comes  ter 
day.  He  paints  pictures  up  in  der  top  of  dat  tall  house  down  yere 
on  Rue  Royale,  an'  he  's  from  der  Norf,  an'  rich — rich." 

Dea's  little  wan  face  took  on  a  pleased,  expectant  look.  Seat- 
ing herself  primly  on  the  stool  beside  Seline,  she  watched  the  passers 
attentively,  while  Philip,  standing  on  the  edge  of  the  banquette, 
whistled  impatiently  as  he  scanned  the  people  on  the  opposite  side 
of  the  street.  . 


11.. 


Chapter  V 


DEA    SELLS    gUASlMODO 


I 

('Hi! 


THE  painter  from  the  North  who  was  "  rich — rich,"  as  Seline  said. 
had  often  stopped  at  her  stand  to  buy  a  handful  of  pecans  or 
a  few  of  her  crisp  pralines,  and  as  often  as  he  came,  he  studied 
with  the  eye  of  an  artist  the  two  children  who  were  always  there, 
and  many  a  dime  found  its  way  into  Philip's  pocket  in  return  for  a 
sprig  of  sweet-olive  and  a  few  violets. 

It  was  true  that  he  was  a  painter.  His  name  was  Edward  Ains- 
worth,  and  he  was  an  artist  of  some  note  in  New  York ;  but  as  to 
his  being  "  rich— rich,"  Seline  had  only  guessed  it:  first,  because  he 
was  a  stranger,  and  secondly,  because  he  bought  flowers  nearly  every 
day,  and  no  one  but  a  rich  man  would  buy  flowers. 

On  this  day,  Seline,  full  of  anxious  expectation,  saw  him  ap- 
proaching, and  at  first  she  thought  he  was  about  to  pass,  but  no,  he 
stopped  suddenly,  and  swinging  around,  leaned  over  the  table  and 
buried  his  face  in  Philip's  tray  of  odorous  flowers. 

"  How  fragrant!     How  delicious!  "  he  said  to  himself  in  a  low 

voice. 

Then  he  selected  a  sprig  of  sweet-olive  and  a  handful  of  violets, 
all  the  while  looking  from  Philip  to  Dea,  who  stood  with  their  large 
questioning  eyes  fixed  on  him. 

•  In  the  mean  time,  Seline  had  put  on  her  most  genial  smile,  and 
when  the  customer  laid  down  a  dime  for  some  pecans,  she  said  in 
her  smooth,  rich  voice,  "They  're  fresh,  right  fresh,  M'sieur;  an' won't 
yer  have  a  few  pralines  for  lagnappe  ?  " 


rich,"  as  Seline  saul, 
mclful  of  pecans  or 
he  came,  he  stuclicd 
were  always  there, 
cket  in  return  for  a 

e  was  Edward  Ains- 
iw  York;  but  as  to 
it :  first,  because  he 
flowers  nearly  every 
s. 

lation,  saw  him  ap- 

;  to  pass,  but  no,  he 

over  the  table  and 

3. 

to  himself  in  a  low 

1  a  handful  of  violets, 
ood  with  their  large 

3st  genial  smile,  and 
;  pecans,  she  said  in 
ih,  M'sieur ;  an'  won't 


TOINETTE  S    PHILIP 


23 


"  Certainly ;  thank  you,"  replied  the  artist,  still  looking  at  the 
children,  while  he  twisted  the  top  of  the  little  paper  bag  that  con- 
tained his  purchases. 

"  If  yer  please,  M'sieur,  I  'd  like  ter  show  yer  dfs  yere  little 
image,"  and  Seline  gently  introduced  Quasimodo,  while  I)ea  turned 
|)aler,  and  Philip's  eyes  were  full  of  anxiety.  It  was  a  moment  of 
intense  interest. 

The  artist's  face  brightened.  He  laid  down  the  flowers  and  the 
paper  bag,  and  taking  the  little  figure  almost  reverently  he  turned 
and  examined  it  critically.  "Who  made  this?"  he  asked,  looking 
from  one  to  the  other. 

"My  papa,"  said  Dea,  finding  her  courage  and  her  voice  at  the 
same  time. 

"Your  papa!  Well,  he  is  a  genius.  It  is  perfectly  modeled. 
What  is  your  papa's  name,  and  where  does  he  live?" 

Dea  dropped  her  head  and  made  no  reply.  The  artist  looked 
inquiringly  at  Seline. 

"  Her  pauv'  papa  is  al'ays  sick,"  said  the  woman,  touching  her 
forehead  significantly;  "  he  does  n't  like  to  see  no  one.  She,"  with  a 
glance  at  Dea,  "  won't  never  tell  strangers  where  she  lives." 

"  Oh !  I  see,"  murmured  the  artist.  "  Well,  my  child,"  turning  to 
the  little  girl  and  speaking  very  gendy,  "can  you  tell  me  what 
character  this  figure  represents?" 

"  It  is  Quasimodo." 

"  Of  course.  It  's  perfect — perfect ;  but  what  a  strange  subject !  " 
and  again  he  turned  it  and  examined  it  still  more  closely. 

"  Do  you  want  to  sell  it? "  he  asked  at  length. 

"  Oh,  yes,  M'sieur,"  cried  Dea,  eagerly.  "  If  you  only  will  buy  it, 
pauv'  papa  will  be  so  glad, —  he  told  me  that  I  must  sell  it  to-day." 

"  How  much  do  you  ask  for  it  ?  " 

"Papa  said  I  could  sell  it  for  five  dollars.     Is  five  dollars  too 


24 


TOINETTE'S    PHILIP 


much?"  faltered  Dea.    "  He  said  it  was  a  work  of  art,  but  if  you  think 

it  is  too  much  — "  ^  u      * 

"  It  is  a  work  of  art,"  interrupted  the  pamter,  as,  with  an  absent- 
minded  air,  he  introduced  his  thumb  and  finger  into  his  waistcoat 
pocket  and  drew  out  a  crisp  note. 

Dea's  eyes  sparkled  and  then  grew  dim  with  tears. 
"  But  tell  me,  if  you  can,  how  long  it  took  your  father  to  model 
this?"  he  asked,  still  holding  the  note. 

"  Oh,  a  long  time,  M'sieur.    I  can't  tell  just  how  long,  because  he 
works  at  night  when  I  'm  asleep." 

"  Ah !  he  works  at  night,—  and  do  you  sell  many  ?  ^  » 

"  No,  M'sieur,  I  have  not  sold  one  for  a  long  time." 
'<  She  has  n't  sold  one  since  Mardi  Gras,"  interposed  Philip  with 
an  air  of  great  interest.     "  A  stranger  bought  one  then,  but  he  only 

gave  three  dollars  for  it." 

"Are  you  her  brother?"  asked  the  artist,  smiling  down  at  Philip. 

<«Oh,  no,  M'sieur,  we  're  not  related,"  replied  the  boy.    "  She  s 
just  my  friend.    She  's  a  girl,  and  I  try  to  take  care  of  her,  and  help 
her  all  I  can,"  and  as  the  boy  spoke  he  raised  his  eyes,  and  there  was 
such  a  sweet  light  in  their  blue  depths  that  the  man's  heart  was 
touched  with  a  very  tender  memory.     "  How  much  he  is  like  him, 
he  thought;  "the  same  look,  the  same  smile,  and  about  the  same 
age      I  wonder  if  Laura  would  notice  it.    I  wish  she  could  see  him 
For  a  moment  he  forgot  where  he  was;  a  far-off  memory  of  his  child- 
hood mingled  with  a  recent  sorrow.     A  boy  in  bare  legs  wading  for 
pond-lilies,  a  boy  standing  by  his  side  watching  each  stroke  of  his 
brush  with  loving  eyes,  and  the  boy  before  him  all  seemed  one  and 
the  same.     A  strong  emotion  swept  everything  from  his  mind,  and 
he  could  only  stand  silent  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  Philip's  eloquent 
face.     At  length  he  started  like  one  in  a  dream,  and  when  he  spoke 
his  voice  had  a  new  note  of  tenderness  in  it. 


TOINETTE  S   PHILIP 


25 


•t,  but  if  you  think 

s,  with  an  absent- 
into  his  waistcoat 

h  tears. 

ir  father  to  model 

\f  long,  because  he 

ly? 

me." 

rposed  Philip  with 

:  then,  but  he  only 

ng  down  at  Philip. 

the  boy.  "  She  's 
xe  of  her,  and  help 
eyes,  and  there  was 
e  man's  heart  was 
ich  he  is  like  him," 
id  about  the  same 
she  could  see  him." 
lemory  of  his  child- 
are  legs  wading  for 

each  stroke  of  his 
all  seemed  one  and 
from  his  mind,  and 
)n  Philip's  eloquent 
and  when  he  spoke 


••  What  a  good  boy  you  are !  She  's  a  fortunate  little  girl  to  have 
such  a  friend.  Tell  me  your  name,  please;  I  wish  to  get  better  ac- 
quainted with  you." 

The  boy  flushed  with   pleasure,  and   replied   promptly,  "  My 
name  is  Philip,  M'sieur." 

•  Philip!"  echoed  the  artist,  "how  strange!  What  is  your  other 
name  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  '91  always  called  Toinette's  Philip.  I  never  thought  of 
any  other  name.     I  '11  ask  my  mammy  to-night  if  I  've  got  another." 

"  Is  Toinette  your  mother  ?  " 

"  No,  M'sieur,  she  's  my  mammy.  She  's  a  yellow  woman,  and 
you  see  I  'm  white." 

"  Have  you  always  lived  with  Toinette  ?  " 

"Always,  ever  since  I  can  remember." 

"  Then  you  have  no  parents  ?  " 

"  Parents?    Oh,  no,  I  guess  not.    I  don't  know;  I  '11  ask  Mammy." 

"  Where  do  you  live  ?  " 

"  I  live  on  Ursulines  street,  away  down-town.  Mammy  has  a 
garden  and  sells  flowers.  It  's  a  right  pretty  garden.  Won't  you 
come  some  day  to  see  it  ?  Mammy  's  proud  of  her  garden,  and  likes 
strangers  to  see  it." 

"  Thank  you,  certainly  I  will  come,"  replied  the  artist,  promptly. 
"  I  like  flowers  myself,  and  I  like  pictures.  I  wonder  if  you  like 
them — I  mean  pictures.     I  suppose  you  have  not  seen  many." 

"  Lots  of  them,  and  I  like  them  too.  I  've  seen  them  in  the 
churches,  and  in  the  shop-windows,  and  —  I  've  tried  to  make 
some,"  added  Philip,  lowering  his  voice  and  flushing  a  little. 

"  Well,  my  boy,  I  'm  a  painter.  I  paint  pictures.  Would  you 
like  to  come  and  see  mine?" 

"  Yes,  M'sieur,  I  would  if  Mammy  says  I  may.  I  '11  ask  her,  and 
if  she  '11  let  me,  I  '11  come  to-morrow." 


i 


-"*^, 


I  iiiii 


26 


TOINETTES   PHILIP 


\ 


"  I  wish  you  could  bring  your  little  friend  with  you.  I  should  like 
to  paint  a  picture  of  her,"  and  the  artist  turned  his  eyes  on  the 
anxious  face  of  the  little  girl,  who  was  looking  eagerly  at  the  note 
fluttering  in  his  hand. 

"  Will  you  go  with  me,  Dea  ?  "  asked  Philip. 

"  I  can't  —  1  must  sell  Esmeralda,"  returned  the  child,  curtly. 
The  artist  looked  smilingly  from  one  to  the  other.     "  So  you 
have  a  figure  of  Esmeralda,  and  your  name  is  Dea.     Where  is 
Homo,  the  wolf?" 

"  Homo  's  under  the  table,  asleep;  but  he  's  not  a  wolf,  he  's  only 

a  wolf-dog." 

At  this  moment,  hearing  his  name  used  so  freely.  Homo  came 
slowly  out  and  sniffed  at  the  stranger,  who  patted  his  head  kindly. 
Then  the  old  dog  with  a  wag  of  approbation  returned  to  his  nap  be- 
side Lilybel. 

"  Really,"  thought  the  artist,  with  a  puzzled  look,  "  it  is  very  in- 
teresting. This  child  and  the  dog  seem  to  have  stepped  out  of  one 
of  Victor  Hugo's  books." 

Here  Seline  made  an  expressive  pantomime  behind  Dea,  which 
led  the  artist  to  suspect  that  the  modeler  in  wax  was  an  enthusiast 
on  thq  subject  of  the  great  French  writer,  and  without  further  expla- 
nation, he  understood  the  situation  pretty  correcriy.  A  poor  sick 
genius  —  sick  mentally  and  physically,  with  this  one  child,  who  was 
his  only  companion  and  friend. 

After  a  moment  of  deliberation  he  said  gently,  "  My  child,  if 
you  will  come  to  my  studio,  I  will  pay  you  for  your  time,  and  I  will 
buy  some  more  of  your  little  figures.  I  won't  keep  you  long,  and  it 
will  be  better  than  staying  in  the  street  all  day." 

"  Yes,  honey,  so  it  will,"  interposed  Seline.  "  Does  yer  un'stand  ? 
M'sieur  '11  pay  yer,  an'  yer  '11  have  plenty  money  fer  yer  pauv' 
papa." 


TOINETTES   PHILIP 


27 


)u.    I  should  like 

his  eyes  on  the 

jerly  at  the  note 


child,  curtly, 
other.     "  So  you 
Dea.    Where  is 

a  wolf,  he  's  only 

;ely,  Homo  came 

his  head  kindly. 

led  to  his  nap  be- 

ik,  "it  is  very  in- 
itepped  out  of  one 

ehind  Dea,  which 
was  an  enthusiast 
lOut  further  expla- 
riy.  A  poor  sick 
ne  child,  who  was 

:ly,  "  My  child,  if 
ur  time,  and  I  will 
p  you  long,  and  it 

>oes  yer  un'stand  ? 
ley  fer  yer  pauv' 


Dea  hesitated,  and  then  replied  doubtfully,  "  I  'm  afraid  papa 
won't  be  willing.  I  '11  ask  him,  but  I  must  go  home  now.  I  must  — 
I  must  go  to  papa." 

"Dea  can't  promise  now,"  said  Philip  excusingly ;  "but  perhaps 
she  '11  come  to-morrow.     I  '11  try  to  bring  her,  M'sieur.'' 

"  Thank  you^  I  live  in  that  tall  house  just  below  here.  Ask  the 
cobbler  in  the  court  to  show  you  the  way  to  Mr.  Ainsworth's  apart- 
ment," and  as  the  artist  gave  Philip  these  directions,  he  handed  the 
five-dollar  note  to  Dea,  who  took  it  with  an  eloquent  glance  of 
gratitude. 

"Oh,  M'sieur,  I  'm  so  glad  !  Yes,  I  '11  try  to  come;  when  pauv'  papa 
knows  how  good  you  are,  perhaps  he  '11  let  me  coipe.  And  may  I 
bring  Esmeralda?     Will  you  buy  Esmeralda?" 

"  Yes,  I  '11  buy  Esmeralda,"  returned  the  artist,  with  a  smile. 
"  You  '11  find  me  a  good  customer,  if  you  *11  bring  your  fiig^ures  to  my 
studio." 

"I  '11  come  —  I  '11  come  to-morrow!"  she  cried  eagerly.  "Now 
Seline,  give  me  my  basket.     I  must  run  all  the  way  to  papa." 

"  Don't,  honey,  don't  get  so  flustered,"  said  Seline,  soothingly,  as 
she  handed  the  basket,  "  an'  don't  run.  It  '11  make  yer  little  head  ache, 
an'  then  yer  can't  get  yer  papa's  dinner." 

"  T  must — I  must  run,  Seline!"  cried  Dea.  "  Au  revoir,  M'sieur. 
Au  revoir,  Philip,"  and  with  a  happy  smile,  she  darted  out  of  the 
portico,  and  down  Rue  Royale,  followed  by  Homo,  who  seemed  aware 
of  his  little  mistress's  good  fortune,  for  he  was  now  as  alert  and 
lively  as  he  was  listless  and  discouraged  before. 

"  Oh,  M'sieur,  you  've  done  a  good  deed  buyin'  dat  litde  image," 
said  Seline  gratefully,  as  she  looked  after  Dea.  "Pore  child,  she  's  so 
glad  she  can't  wait,  'cause  her  papa  ain't  had  no  breakfast." 

Nor  no  supper  last  night,"  continued  Philip.     "  Dea  don't  like 
to  tell,  but  I  always  know  when  they  have  nothing  to  eat." 


■,\t 


li ; 


■mmmsk- 


28 


TOINETTES   PHILIP 


"What!  Is  it  possible?— nothing  to  eat!  Arethey  aspoor  asthat?" 
exclaimed  the  artist.     "  And  have  they  no  one  to  take  care  of  them  ?" 

"  They  have  n't  any  one,"  returned  Philip.  "  They  came  here 
from  France  when  Dea  was  a  baby,  and  her  father  's  been  strange 
and  sick  ever  since  her  mother  died." 

"  An'  that  pore  chile  has  to  take  care  of  him,"  sighed  Seline.  "Oh, 
M'sieur,  do  buy  somethin'  more  fer  tlTe  sake  of  that  motherless  litde 

cretur!" 

"  I  will— I  certainly  will.  I  '11  try  to  do  something  for  them," 
replied  the  painter,  kindly.  "  I  '11  sell  some  to  my  friends.  Bring 
the  child  to  me  and  I  '11  see  what  I  can  do."  Then,  with  a  pleasant 
"  good  day  "  he  walked  off  carrying  Quasimodo  very  carefully. 

Philip  watched  him  with  admiring  eyes  until  his  tall  figure  dis- 
appeared in  the  court  of  the  high  house  on  the  next  square;  then  he 
turned  to  Seline  and  said  earnestly,  "  I  did  n't  think  any  one  who 
painted  pictures  would  stop  to  talk  to  us.  Why,  I  ain't  a  bit  afraid 
of  him.  You  can  bet  I  'm  going  to  see  him,  and  I  'm  going  to  get 
him  to  teach  me  to  paint  pictures." 

•'  An'  he  's  rich !— he  '11  buy  lots  of  them  little  images,"  returned 
Seline  with  undisguised  satisfaction. 


rrrr? 


yras  poor  as  that?" 
kecare  of  them?" 
'They  came  here 
er  's  been  strange 


Chapter  VI 


rhedSeline.  "Oh, 
It  motherless  little 


ething  for  them," 
ly  friends.  Bring 
;n,  with  a  pleasant 
iry  carefully. 

his  tall  figure  dis- 
xt  square ;  then  he 
hink  any  one  who 

I  ain't  a  bit  afraid 
1  I  'm  going  to  get 

:  images,"  returned 


TOINETTE 

MANY  years  ago  when  handsome  residences  were  not  numer- 
ous in  the  French  quarter  of  New  Orleans,  the  Creoles  of 
Ursulines  street  were  very  proud  of  the  Detrava  place. 
It  was  a  large  white  mansion,  with  fluted  columns  and  wide  shady 
galleries,  set  well  back  from  the  street,  and  surrounded  by  a  broad 
lawn  and  lovely  rose-garden,  which  were  hidden  from  inquisitive 
neighbors  by  a  high  brick  wall  covered  with  pink  stucco.  On  each 
side  of  the  wide  gate  of  beautifully  wrought  iron  were  massive  pil- 
lars, supporting  couchant  lions,  who  held  beneath  their  iron  paws 
two  rusty  cannon-balls  brought  from  the  victorious  field  of  Chalmette 
by  the  General  Detrava  who  built  the  imposing  mansion,  and  retired 
there  after  the  battle  of  New  Orleans. 

For  many  years  the  Detrava  place  was  the  scene  of  the  most 
generous  hospitality,  and  many  an  aged  lady  can  count  her  d^but  at 
a  Detrava  ball  as  one  of  the  most  brilliant  events  of  her  life.  Chil- 
dren and  grandchildren  succeeded  the  General,  until  at  last  one  by 
one  they  dropped  away,  and  all  were  gone  but  Charles  Detrava,  a 
v/ealthy  sugar-planter,  who  preferred  to  live  in  the  country  on  his 
fine  plantation.  For  years  the  old  mansion  was  closed  and  deserted; 
but  at  last  one  winter  it  was  thrown  open  for  a  brilliant  occasion — the 
d^but  of  the  only  child,  the  charming  Estelle  Detrava,  who  had  just 
been  graduated  at  the  Dorilinican  convent.  And  that  fi&te  will  al- 
ways be  remembered  by  those  who  were  fortunate  enough  to  be 
present.    It  was  the  winter  before  the  beginning  of  the  civil  war,  and 


h,i 


iii 


i:rt 


ll. 


30 


TOINETTE  S   PHILIP 


it  was  almost  the  last  brilliant  social  event  that  preceded  years  of 
sorrow  and  disaster. 

Among  the  first  to  join  the  Confederate  army  was  Charles 
Detrava.  He  went  away  with  his  regiment,  never  to  return,  leav- 
ing his  wife  and  daughter  in'  the  seclusion  of  their  country  home. 
Shortly  after  her  husband's  departure,  Mrs.  Detrava  died,  and 
Estelle  was  left  without  a  relative,  excepting  some  cousins  in  France, 
whom  she  had  never  seen.  Then  there  came  a  rumor  of  her  mar- 
riage, but  to  whom  she  was  married  no  one  seemed  to  know;  and  so 
little  was  she  thought  of  in  the  face  of  graver  events  that,  some  time 
after,  when  one  night  the  residents  of  Unsulines  street  were  awak- 
ened by  the  uproar  of  a  great  conflagration,  and  the  old  Detrava 
mansion  disappeared  in  smoke  and  flames,  they  were  appalled  and 
astonished  to  learn  that  a  young  mother,  with  her  babe  and  nurse, 
had  perished  in  the  fire.  No  one  knew  that  the  house  had  been 
occupied,  or  that  Estelle  Detrava,  who  had  lost  her  husband  in  a 
recent  skirmish  near  her  country  home,  had  fled  from  the  scene  of 
the  conflict  to  the  refuge  of  the  deserted  city  mansion.  She  had 
arrived  the  day  before  with  her  child  and  servant,  and  only  one  or 
two  tradespeople  were  aware  of  her  beirtg  there  until  the  sad  news 
was  reported  that  of  the  three  sleeping  in  the  house  that  night  not 
one  escaped. 

By  this  sudden  and  terrible  calamity,  the  family  was,  as  it  were, 
destroyed,  as  well  as  the  beautiful  old  mansion,  of  which  there  only 
remained  some  broken  columns  and  tottering  chimneys  standing 
among  piles  of  debris;  but  very  soon  that  artist,  Nature,  decorated 
4nd  beautified  the  ruins  by  covering  them  with  a  luxuriant  growth 
of  flowers  and  vines,  and  the  curious  who  stopped  to  peer  through 
the  iron  gates,  saw  only  a  profusion  of  green  covering  the  fluted 
columns  and  the  winding  shell-walks. 

In  the  spring  the  Pittosporum-trees,  which  before  had  been  kept 


preceded  years  of 

irmy  was  Charles 
'er  to  return,  leav- 
;eir  country  home. 
)etrava  died,  and 
cousins  in  France, 
rumor  of  her  mar- 
id  to  know;  and  so 
Its  that,  some  time 
street  were  awak- 
i  the  old  Detrava 
were  appalled  and 
sr  babe  and  nurse, 
le  house  had  been 
:  her  husband  in  a 
from  the  scene  of 
nansion.  She  had 
t,  and  only  one  or 
until  the  sad  news 
>use  that  night  not 

lily  was,  as  it  were, 
3f  which  there  only 
chimneys  standing 
,  Nature,  decorated 
a  luxuriant  growth 
ed  to  peer  through 
covering  the  fluted 


efore  had  been  kept 


I 


mmr. 


m 


TOINETTES   PHILIP 


yi 


33 


carefully  trimmed,  thrust  their  white  blossoming  branches  above  the 
walls,  and  the  riotous  vines  climbed  over  the  gate,  and  almost  hid 
the  white  board  on  which  was  printed  in  black  letters,  "A  vendre  on 
d  loner."  Day  after  day  the  sign  hung  there,  in  sun  and  rain,  but 
no  tenant  came  to  occupy  the  little  cottage  in  the  rear  which  had  es- 
caped the  conflagration,  neither  did  a  purchaser  appear  to  bargain 
for  the  property  that  had  passed  to  the  next  of  kin — the  unknown 
cousins  in  France. 

Time  passed  on,  and  each  season  the  place  looked  more  neg- 
lected and  deserted.  The  beautiful  lawn  and  rose-garden  were  over- 
run with  weeds,  the  flowering  shrubs  grew  into  trees,  the  climbing 
roses  and  jasmines  pushed  their  branches  upward  and  clung  to 
every  possible  support,  dense  shadows  brooded  among  the  foliage, 
where  numerous  birds  built  their  nests  and  bred  their  young.  The 
old  garden  was  still  lovely,  but  a  cloud  hung  over  it :  the  memory  of 
the  tragedy  of  that  terrible  night.  And  after  awhile  foolish  rumors 
filled  the  neighborhood,  and  people  began  to  eye  the  rusty  gate  and 
grim  lions  as  though  they  inclosed  and  guarded  a  gloomy  secret, 
until  it  seemed  as  if  no  one  could  be  found  who  would  brave  the  lone- 
liness and  seclusion  of  the  place  and  take  possession  of  the  comfort- 
able little  cottage  that  had  served  as  servants'  quarters  in  the 
prosperous  days  of  the  old  mansion. 

At  last  one  day  the  neighbors  noticed  a  respectable-looking  old 
quadroon,  leading  a  lovely  little  white  child  by  the  hand,  pass  slowly 
up  the  street  and  stop  before  the  gate  of  the  Detrava  place.  She 
was  a  small,  gentle-looking  woman,  dressed  in  rusty  black,  with  a 
white  tignon  tied  neatly  over  her  gray  hair,  and  the  child,  though 
plainly  clad,  was  as  clean  and  fresh  as  a  lily.  For  a  long  time  the 
woman  lingered  with  her  face  pressed  against  the  iron  scrollwork 
of  the  gate,  and  when,  after  some  time,  she  walked  sadly  away,  there 
were  traces  of  tears  on  her  cheeks. 


!  f 


I 


I!  I 


I 


34 


TOINETTES    PHILIP 


A  few  mornings  after  that,  the  druggist  opposite  noticed  a 
slender  column  of  smoke  rising  from  the  chimney  of  the  little  cot- 
tage, and  he  knew  that  at  last  the  Detrava  place  had  found  an  oc- 
cupant. The  old  sign  disappeared,  and  after  awhile  in  its  place  huiij,' 
another,  on  which  was  neatly  painted,  "Floral  designs  for  funenils 
and  weddings,  and  cut  flowers  for  sale  at  very  low  prices." 

It  was  some  time  before  the  curiosity  of  the  neighbors  was 
gratified   in   regard   to   the   new  tenant;    and  when  at   last  they 
learned  that  it  was  the  liatle  quadroon  woman  who  had  been  seen 
looking  in  the  gate,  they  were  greatly  surprised  and  disappointed. 
In  spite  of  every  effort,  the  most  they  could  learn  was  that  her  name 
was  Toinette,  that  she  was  a  skilful  florist,  and  that  she  was  nurse 
and  guardian  to  the  little  white  boy  she  called  Philip.    She  was  very 
seldom  seen,  as  she  passed  in  and  out  of  the  gate  in  the  rear,  and  of 
the  child  they  had  only  occasional  glimpses,  and  those  were  at  times 
when  he  ran,  like  some  lovely  little  sylvan  creature,  down  the  shaded 
walk  between  the  great  oaks  and  magnolias,  to  press  his  round  pink 
face  against  the  iron  gate,  where  he  would  stand  and  look  out  into 
the  narrow,  dusty  street,  his  blue  eyes  wide  and  bright  with  pleased 
surprise.     The  little  Creoles  on  the  other  side  of  the  gate  tried  by 
every  means  in  their  power  to  overcome  his  shyness,  but  in  vain ;  at 
the  first  approach  he  would  scurry  away,  and  conceal  himself  behind 
a  clump  of  bushes  or  a  tangle  of  vines,  until  his  would-be  friends  had 

departed. 

He  was  a  healthy,  happy  child ;  he  loved  flowers  and  birds ;  all 
dumb  things  came  to  him  with  the  utmost  confidence.  He  was  always 
surrounded  by  his  pets,  and  they  seemed  to  have  a  sort  of  secret  un- 
derstanding with  him.  Toinette  sometimes  thought  they  even  had  a 
language  in  common ;  for  when  he  whistled  softly,  the  cardinals  and 
mocking-birds  flew  down  to  eat  out  of  his  hand.  He  would  flit 
about  among  the  flowers,  and  butterflies  and  other  winged  insects 


iui  -  I jpii 


"^ 


TOINETTES   PHILIl' 


35 


opposite  noticed  a 
2y  of  the  little  cot- 
:e  had  found  an  oc- 
ile  in  its  place  hunjf 
designs  for  funerals 
'  low  prices." 
the  neighbors  was 
when  at   last  they 
who  had  been  seen 
d  and  disappointed. 
n  was  that  her  name 
that  she  was  nurse 
hilip.    She  was  very 
e  in  the  rear,  and  of 
those  were  at  times 
ire,  down  the  shaded 
press  his  round  pink 
id  and  look  out  into 
.  bright  with  pleased 
3f  the  gate  tried  by 
ness,  but  in  vain ;  at 
tnceal  himself  behind 
would-be  friends  had 

lowers  and  birds ;  all 
2nce.  He  was  always 
e  a  sort  of  secret  un- 
ight  they  even  had  a 
tly,  the  cardinals  and 
md.  He  would  flit 
other  winged  insects 


hovered  over  him.     Very  early  he  showed  a  taste  for  drawing  birds 
and  animals,  and  Toinette  encouraged  it.     She  bought  him  paper 
and  a  small  box  of  colors,  and  when  P^rc  Josef,  the  kind  little  priest 
who  lived  in  a  tiny  cottage  near,  told  Toinette  that  the  child  had 
talent  and  would  make  a  painter  some  day,  she  was  delighted.     As 
soon  as  he  was  old  enough  to  learn  his  letters,  she  engaged  Pfere  Josef 
to  teach  him,  and  every  morning,  summer  and  winter,  at  six  o'clock  the 
rosy  little  fellow  finished  his  hominy  and  milk,  and  ran  to  P^re  Josef, 
who  was  always  sitting  over  his   coffee  and  books  at  that  hour. 
Philip  loved  P4re  Josef,  but  he  adored  Toinette.     There  was  noth- 
injr  in  her  power  that  she  would  not  undertake  for  the  child,  and 
he  repaid  her  with  ready  obedience  and  unstinted  affection ;  and,  as 
he  grew  older  he  assisted  her  in  many  ways :  he  weeded  her  flower- 
beds, transplanted  her  violets,  gathered  up  dead  leaves,  and  dug  the 
grass  out  of  the  cracks  of  the  brick  paving  with  the  most  patient 
industry.     Therefore,   when  one  day  Toinette  told  him  he  could 
go  on  the  street  and  sell  a  few  flowers,  he  was  overjoyed.     He  was 
about  six  years  old  then,  and  he  had  lost  much  of  the  shyness  of  his 
infancy ;  but  about  him  there  was  always  something  of  the  air  of  a 
little  woodland  creature,  which  made  him  so  natural  and  charming, 
and  this  perhaps  led  him  to  seek  the  protection  of  Seline  when  he 
found  himself  alone  in  the  crowded   streets.     He   usually  sold  his 
flowers  in  the  morning  to  gentlemen  on  the  way  to  their  offices.    He 
had  many  regular  customers  who  dropped  the  dime  into  his  hand  as 
much  for  the  charm  of  his  sunny  smile  and  pleasant  "  good  morn- 
ing "  as  for  the  love  of  the  flowers.     When  his  tray  was  empty,  he 
did  not  linger  nor  idle  away  his  time,  but  ran  off  to  Toinette,  as 
happy  as  a  lark,  to  assist  her  in  cultivating  her  beds  of  pansies  and 
violets. 

Philip  had  told  his  mammy  of  his  acquaintance  with  Dea,  and  the 
kind  old  woman,  although  she  had  never  seen  the  little  girl,  felt  a 


m 


36 


TOINETTE  S    PHILIP 


great  interest  in  her,  and  always  managed  to  supply  the  boy  with 
food  enough  for  two,  so  that  his  little  friend  need  never  go  hungry. 
And  every  day  when  the  boy  came  home,  her  question  was  not 
whether  he  had  sold  his  flowers,  but  whether  Dea  had  sold  any  of 
her  little  figures.        ^ 


I 


lii 


ipply  the  boy  with 

1  never  go  hungry. 

question  was  not 

ia  had  sold  any  of 


Chapter  VII 


PHILIP   ASKS   A    QUESTION 


ON  the  day  when  the  artist  bought  Quasimodo,  Philip  could 
hardly  wait,  so  eager  was  he  to  tell  Toinette  of  Dea's  good 
fortune.  So,  when  his  flowers  were  all  sold,  he  fairly  flew 
down  Ursulines  street,  never  stopping  for  any  of  the  tempting  invi- 
tations to  join  in  the  numerous  games  the  children  were  playing  on 
the  sidewalk ;  for  Toinette's  Philip  was  a  great  favorite  among 
them,  and  they  were  always  glad  when  he  appeared. 

At  the  corner  of  Tremd  street  he  saw  a  group  of  boys  around  a 
small  crippled  negro  who  carried  a  heavy  bucket  on  his  head. 
"There  are  the  brick-dust  children  going  home,  and  those  boys  are 
tormenting  little  Bill  again!"  he  cried,  with  a  flash  of  anger  in  his 
blue  eyes.  "  Just  let  me  catch  up  with  them,  and  I  '11  scatter  them  ! " 
A  moment  after  he  was  in  the  midst  of  the  crowd,  striking  out  to  the 
right  anr^.  left.  "  Look  here,  you  boys ;  leave  that  lame  child  alone ! 
Are  n't  you  ashamed  to  torment  him?  Here,  Bill,  give  me  your 
bucket ;  you  can  carry  my  tray,"  and  swinging  the  heavy  pail  of 
brick-dust  upon  his  head,  he  marched  off,  as  straight  as  a  caryatid, 
followed  by  the  brick-dust  children,  who  gave  three  cheers  for  Toi- 
nette's Philip. 

When  Philip  reached  the  gate  of  the  Detrava  place,  he  was 
rosy  and  breathless  from  his  exertion,  and  his  eyes  were  spark- 
ling with  excitement.  Toinette  was  sitting  on  the  little  gallery 
beside  a  table  covered  with  white  flowers.  She  was  filling  the  wire 
design  of  a  lamb  with  small  waxen  jasmine  blossoms. 


9" 


37 


jip; 


I 


i!!ll"i 


38  TOINETTES   PHILIP 

"Who  's  that  for,  Mammy?"  asked  Philip,  leaning  against  the 
post  of  the  gallery,  while  he  wiped  his  hot  face. 

"  It  's  for  a  little  baby  on  Prieur  street ;  it  died  last  evening. 
But  what  makes  you  so  warm,  child?"  asked  Toinette  gently; 
"have  n't  I  told  you  not  to  run  so  much?" 

"  I  could  n't  help  it ;  I  was  in  such  a  hurry  to  get  home.  I 
wanted  to  tell  you  that  Dea  has  sold  Quasimodo."  Then  Philip, 
rapidly  and  breathlessly,  partly  in  English,  and  partly  in  French, 
told  Toinette  of  the  adventures  of  the  day.  "  And  oh.  Mammy,  he 
paints  pictures  right  there  where  he  lives,  and  he  wants  me  to 
come  to  see  him!     May  I  go  to-morrow?" 

"  Why,  yes,  child,"  replied  Toinette,  without  looking  up  from  her 
work;  "you  can  go,  and  if  he  '11  teach  you  anything,  I  shall  be  glad 
to  have  you  learn." 

"  He  will  teach  me ;  I  know  he  will.  He  's  very  kind,  and  he 
promised  to  buy  Esmeralda,"  said  Philip  confidently. 

"  I  'm  glad  for  the  poor  child,"  continued  Toinette,  busily  bui!  'ing 

up  the  lamb's  ears. 

"Can't  I  have  my  supper  now,  Mammy?  I  'm  awful  hin^iy. 
Did  you  make  the  gumbo?" 

"Yes,  cher;  it  's  all  ready.  Just  wait  a  minute;  I  must  finish 
this.  The  woman  's  coming  for  it.  I  've  only  got  the  eyes  to  put  in." 
And  as  Toinette  spoke  she  selected  the  dark  leaf  of  a  pansy,  and 
dexterously  inserted  it  into  the  empty  socket.  "There,  is  n't  it 
natural?"  she  said,  holding  it  off  and  looking  at  it  admiringly.  "  It 's 
so  white  and  innocent."  *\ 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Philip,  regarding  it  critically,  with  hisiiead 
on  one  side;  "  I  think  I  'd  like  the  flowers  best  just  as  they  grew." 
At  that  moment  the  bell  rang,  and  Philip  ran  to  open  the  gate. 
The  servant  had  come  with  a  basket  for  the  lamb. 

"  Madam  will  like  this,"  she  said  as  she  wiped  a  tear  from  her 


waning  against  the 

died  last  evening. 
Toinette   gently; 

Y  to  get  home.  I 
do."  Then  Philip, 
.  partly  in  French, 
ind  oh,  Mammy,  he 
1  he  wants  me  to 

Doking  up  from  her 
ing,  I  shall  be  glad 

very  kind,  and  he 
lently. 
ette,  busily  buil  Hng 

I  'm  awful  hin^iy. 

lute;  I  must  finish 

the  eyes  to  put  in." 

eaf  of  a  pansy,  and 

"There,  is  n't  it 

t  admiringly.    "  It 's 

ically,  with  hisiiead 
just  as  they  grew." 
in  to  open  the  gate. 

)ed  a  tear  from  her 


■  /- 


i^jr;_r-^ 


'^j;n:  y^  ;"*>* 


'^^^^"^^^^^^%M'm 


m'hi^llx:,(i 


r^miiW^ 


rm:':,f 


>t    '.; 


"TOINETTE    WAS    FILLING    THE    WIRE    DESIGN    OF    A    LAMB    WITH    JASMINE    BLOSSOMS." 


TOINETTE  S   PHILIP 


4X 


or- 


glossy   black  face;     "she   does   n't   know   about   it.      M'sieur 
dered  it." 

Toinette  enveloped  the  lamb  in  white  oiled  paper,  and  laid  it 
carefully  in  the  basket.  She  did  everything  daintily,  with  a  gentle, 
refined  touch ;  but  she  looked  old  and  feeble. 

"  Now,  child,"  she  said  as  the  woman  went  away,  walking  slowly 
and  glancing  often  at  the  basket  as  if  it  contained  a  living  thing ; 
"just  run  and  fasten  the  gate,  and  I  '11  set  the  table  for  your  supper." 
Toinette  brushed  from  the  little  table  the  fragrant  remnants  of 
the  flowers,  and  spread  a  white  cloth  over  it.  Then  she  went  into 
the  spotless  kitchen,  which  served  for  all  their  simple  needs,  and 
brought  out  a  bowl  of  steaming  gumbo,  a  dish  piled  with  snowy  rice, 
a  plate  of  biscuit,  and  a  glass  pitcher  of  milk.  While  she  was  mak- 
ing these  preparations,  Philip  went  to  his  little  bedroom,  which 
opened  out  of  this  one  living-room,  and  as  he  passed  through  the 
kitchen,  he  glanced  at  everything  with  a  loving  eye — how  clean  and 
cheerful  it  looked !  The  walls  were  nearly  covered  with  bright  wire 
designs  for  making  floral  ornaments  for  funerals  and  weddings. 
These  emblems  of  the  extremes  of  joy  and  sorrow  jostled  one  another 
intimately.  There  were  bells  and  harps,  crowns  and  stars,  pillows 
and  horseshoes,  gates  ajar  and  four-leaved  clovers,  lambs  and  doves, 
and  between  these  skeleton  emblems  hung  numerous  wreaths  of 
white  "immortals,"  on  which  where  mottos  in  purple,  A  mon  fils,  A 
ma  m^re,  Priez  pour  nous,  and  the  like.  The  Creoles  often  bought 
those;  therefore  Toinette  kept  them  ready  with  the  French  mottos. 
As  Philip  passed  through  the  room,  the  evening  sun  darted  in  at  the 
west  window,  and  all  the  frames  sparkled  like  silver.  They  gave  a 
kind  of  richness  to  the  place,  and  set  ofif  the  white  walls,  the  red  brick 
floor,  and  the  plain  dark  furniture ;  outside  everything  was  green 
and  cool,  and  this  bit  of  light  and  color  made  a  pleasant  contrast. 
Philip  always  liked  it.     Unconsciously  his  artistic  sense  was  gratified; 


I 


4a 


TOINETTE  S   PHILIP 


.1I|I(H 


1 1! 


and,  beside,  it  was  his  home, — the  only  one  he  had  ever  known, — 
and  it  was  very  dear  to  him. 

He  entered  his  little  room  and  glanced  at  his  white  cot,  draped 
with  the  mosquito-bar,  at  the  little  table  by  the  rose-covered  window, 
on  which  lay  his  slate  and  books,  and  thought  proudly  in  his  little 
heart  that  there  could  be  no  prettier  place  in  the  world.  A  small 
brown  bird  hung  on  a  branch  of  the  rose-bush  and  twittered  "Sweety, 
sweety,  sweet !  "  Philip  repeated  the  caressing  notes  in  a  tone  exactly 
like  its  own,  while  he  bathed  his  hands  and  face  and  brushed  his 
tangled  hair ;  then  he  took  a  prayer-book  from  a  shelf  over  his  bed, 
and  went  out  to  the  gallery  where  Toinette  was  waiting  for  him. 
After  their  simple  meal  was  over,  Toinette  pushed  back  her  chair  and 
composed  herself  into  a  listening  attitude. 

•'  Oh,  Mammy !"  said  Philip,  coaxingly,  as  he  took  the  prayer-book 
and  turned  the  pages ;  "  I  'm  awful  tired — can't  I  skip  the  Ten  Com- 
mandments to-night?" 

*'  Certainly  not ! "  replied  Toinette,  severely.  "  Have  you  ever 
missed  saying  them  a  night  since  you  knew  them  ?  Go  on,  cher,  I  Ve 
some  work  to  do  before  dark,  and  you  have  your  lessons  to  learn. 
Was  P^re  Josef  satisfied  with  you  this  morning?" 

"  He  said  he  was.  He  said  I  did  my  analyse  very  well.  So  you 
won't  let  me  off  to-night  ?    Well,  then,  I  may  as  well  say  them." 

And  Philip,  composing  his.  face  to  a  becoming  gravity,  re- 
peated in  a  gentle  droning  voice  che  Ten  Commandments,  the 
Creed,  and  the  Lord's  Prayer.  When  he  had  finished,  Toi- 
nette bowed  her  head  and  said  softly,  "Amen."  After  that 
serious  duty  was  over  he  got  his  books  and  sat  on  the  steps 
to  study,  while  Toinette  cleared  the  table  and  busied  herself 
for  some  time  within.  When  she  came  out  again  she  looked 
at  Philip  anxiously.  The  boy  was  sitting  with  his  chin  in  his 
palms  and  his  books  were  lying  neglected  at  his  feet.     She  glanced 


!■  |ii:niipijiiii)ii>«im;«<iii«|i||«pM>y» 


TOINETTES   PHILIP 


43 


had  ever  known,— 

is  white  cot,  draped 
ise-covered  window, 
proudly  in  his  little 
he  world.  A  small 
i  twittered  "  Sweety, 
tes  in  a  tone  exactly 
ce  and  brushed  his 
I  shelf  over  his  bed, 
as  waiting  for  him. 
1  back  her  chair  and 

ook  the  prayer-book 
;  skip  the  Ten  Com- 

"Have  you  ever 
?  Go  on,  cheVy  I  've 
5ur  lessons  to  learn. 

?  very  well.  So  you 
s  well  say  them." 
coming  gravity,  re- 
Z)ommandments,  the 
had  finished,  Toi- 
Amen."  After  that 
id  sat  on  the  steps 
and  busied  herself 
again  she  looked 
rith  his  chin  in  his 
is  feet.     She  glanced 


again  at  him ;  he  was  in  deep  thought.  What  could  the  child  be 
thinking  of?  Suddenly  Toinette  looked  older  and  feebler,  and  her 
hands  shook  as  she  tried  to  sort  some  seeds. 

There  was  something  she  had  been  dreading  lately.  It  was  a 
question,  and  he  might  ask  it  at  any  moment.  As  he  sat  there  in  the 
soft  evening  light  he  looked  older  to  her  than  he  ever  had  before, 
and,  with  an  inward  shiver,  she  felt  that  it  was  coming. 

Suddenly  he  raised  his  eyes,  and,  fixing  them  on  her  gravely,  he 
said :  *'  Mammy,  that  gentleman  asked  me  to-day  if  my  father  and 
mother  are  living.     Are  they?" 

Toinette  turned  very  pale,  and  looked  away  from  the  child's 
clear  gaze.  "  No,"  she  replied  tremulously ;  "  no,  my  child,  you  lost 
them  both  when  you  were  a  few  months  old." 

"Well,  he  asked  me  what  my  other  name  was.     Have  I  got 
another  name?" 

"  Certainly  you  have,"  gasped  Toinette ;  "  but  what  need  of  asking 
such  questions  ?     It  can't  matter  to  a  little  boy  like  you." 

"  Yes,  Mammy,  it  does ;  now  I  think  of  it,  all  boys  have  two  names. 
Even  little  Bill  is  named  Bill  Brown,  and  I  'm  only  Toinette's  Philip." 

A  look  of  pain  passed  over  Toinette's  face,  and  for  a  moment 
she  remained  silent ;  then  she  said  gravely  and  decidedly :  "  You 
must  never  ask  me  any  more  such  questions,  Philip.  When  the 
right  time  comes  you  will  know  all  about  it.  Some  day  when  I  'm 
not  here,  P^re  Josef  will  tell  you.  He  has  some  papers  for  you 
when  you  are  older ;  I  can't  tell  you  anything  now.  Forget  all  about 
it  and  attend  to  your  lessons,  or  P^re  Josef  won't  be  satisfied  with 
you  to-morrow." 

Philip  picked  up  his  book  and  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  page  be- 
fore him,  but  he  did  not  see  it.  Suddenly  a  strange  curiosity  was 
awakened  in  his  mind — his  mammy  would  'not  satisfy  it,  but  perhaps 
P^re  Josef  would.     He  would  ask  him  about  it  in  the  morning. 


m 


:li',' 

m 


,  Chapter  VIII 

,     AN    ARTIST    IN    WAX 

WHEN    Dea   reached   the   small   cottage  on  Villerd   street, 
where  she  had  passed  most  of  the  years  of  her  sad  little 
life,  she  pushed  open  the  creaking  gate  impetuously,  and, 
closely  followed  by  Homo,  ran  swiftly  up  the  grass-grown  brick  walk 

to  the  door.  ..  i      i       u  i 

-Papa!  papa!"  she   called,  placing  her  hps  to   the  key-hole. 

.'  It  's  me— it  's  Dea;  do  let  me  in.  quick!" 

After  a  few  moments  of  impatient  waiting  the  child  heard  a  slow, 
listless  step  approaching,  and  a  hand  that  seemed  weak  and  trem- 
bling turned  the  key  and  opened  the  door  cautiously  In  the  aperture 
appeared  a  wan.  bearded  face,  with  hollow  eyes  and  tangled  hair 

..Papa!  oh,  papa!  just  see  what  I  've  got,"  cried  Dea,  da  tmg 
through  the  narrow  opening.  "I  've  sold  Quasimodo,  and  I  ve 
brought  vou  something  to  eat" 

The  man  looked  at  her  silently,  in  a  dazed,  helpless  sort  of  way, 
pressing  his  hand  to  his  head,  as  if  he  were  trying  to  collect  his 
thoughts  and  awaken  his  memory.  ,  ,        ,  •         K„t 

The  child  was  breathless  and  exhausted  from  her  running .  but 
she  closed  the  door,  set  down  her  basket,  and  then  hastened  to  open 
one  of  the  blinds.  f;r  the  room  was  nearly  dark.  Then  drawing  a 
chair  up  to  a  large  table,  which  was  covered  with  books  and  papers, 
as  well  as  a  number  of  small  wax-figures  in  different  stages  of  pro- 
gress, she  cleared  from  one  corner  of  it  the  numerous  articles  of  he 
father's  craft,  and  spreading  out  the  napkin  containing  the  food  that 


IK 


■■JLWWJWIUH*  M  ii  ■ 


■4&^^ 


■*~? 


TOINETTES    PHILIP 


45 


on  Villerd  street, 
irs  of  her  sad  little 
e  impetuously,  and, 
3s-grown  brick  walk 

s  to   the  key-hole. 

e  child  heard  a  slow, 
ned  weak  and  trem- 
isly.  In  the  aperture 
and  tangled  hair. 
'  cried  Dea,  darting 
iiasimodo,  and  I  've 

helpless  sort  of  way, 
trying  to  collect  his 

3m  her  running ;  but 
len  hastened  to  open 
k.  Then  drawing  a 
th  books  and  papers, 
fferent  stages  of  pro- 
nerous  articles  of  her 
itaining  the  food  that 


Seline  had  given  her,  she  turned  to  her  father,  and,  putting  her  arm 
around  him,  led  him  to  the  chair,  and  gently  seated  him. 

For  a  moment  he  looked  at  the  food  silently,  while  the  tears 
rolled  slowly  down  his  thin  cheeks.    "  Is  it  for  me  ?  "  he  whispered,  at 

•^"«:th.  _  ^. 

"  Yes,  papa,  it 's  for  you.     It  's  all  for  you." 
"No,  no;  you  must  eat  it,  Dea.     You  are  hungry." 
"  I  have  had  my  breakfast,  papa  ;  this  is  for  you.    Eat  it,  and  see 
how  nice  it  is,"  urged  the  child,  as  she  selected  a  tempting  morsel 
and  held  it  toward  him. 

"  I  'm  not  hungry ;  I  can't  eat.  I  'm  too  ill  to  eat." 
"  Dear,  dear  papa,  do  try.  I  bought  it  for  you,  and  I  have  sold 
Quasimodo.  Look,  cAer,  look  at  the  money ! "  She  put  her  arm 
around  his  neck  and  held  the  note  before  him.  "Is  n't  it  lovely? 
Just  look,  five  dollars — twenty-five  francs !  We  sha'n't  go  hungry 
again.  Oh,  dearest,  sweetest  papa,  wake  up  !  try  to  forget  your  poor 
head;  try  to  eat,  and  get  well!"  and  Dea  pressed  her  anxious  little 
face  against  his  hair  and  caressed  him  fondly. 

For  some  time  he  sat  staring  at  the  money,  his  weak  frame 
shaking  with  a  tearless  sob.  "It  is  gone,"  he  groaned  at  last.  "I 
worked  day  and  night  on  it.  It  was  the  best  thing  I  ever  did,  and 
this  little  piece  of  paper  is  all  I  have  for  it." 

"  Oh,  papa ! "  cried  the  child,  with  a  sharp  note  of  sorrow  in  her 
soft  voice,  "don't  think  of  that.  You  can  do  another  as  good. 
Think  of  me,  be  glad  for  me,  get  well  for  me  ;  I  love  you,  I  love  you  ! 
Try  to  eat,  do  try !  —  this  is  nice  bread,  and  this  is  the  cheese  you 
like,"  and,  as  coaxingly  and  as  tenderly  as  one  would  treat  a  sick 
child,  she  broke  the  food  morsel  by  morsel  and  put  it  to  his  lips. 

He  did  not  resist,  but  ate  with  pitiful  docility,  and  evidently  with 
litde  relish.  When  he  would  take  no  more,  Dea  gave  the  fragments 
to  Homo,  who  was  watching  the  result  with  great  interest,  as  though 


I      l! 


:;    1' 


^  TOINETTES   PHILIP 

he  was  wondering  in  his  dog's  heart  why  his  master  had  to  be 
urged  to  eat.     Then  she  brought  a  plate,  and,  putting  the  remainder 


DBA   AND    HKR    FATHER. 


of  the  food  on  it,  she  covered  it  with  the  napkin  and  set  it  away  for 
another  meal.  After  that  she  went  to  her  small  room,  and,  slippmg 
off  her  kerchief  and  scarf,  she  put  on  a  long  apron  that  entirely  cov- 


master   had  to  he 
ting  the  remainder 


;^. 


^^1: 


1  and  set  it  away  for 

room,  and,  slipping 

on  that  entirely  cov- 


TOINEFTE  S    PHILIP 


47 


ercd  her  frock — the  frock  had  been  one  of  her  mother's,  and  she  wa» 
very  careful  of  it ;  then  she  proceeded  to  tidy  up  the  small,  neglected 
chambers.  She  was  so  little  and  frail  that  the  broom  in  her  hands 
looked  out  of  all  proportion,  yet  she  handled  it  with  wonderful 
dexterity.  She  swept  and  dusted  and  arranged  everything  with 
the  utmost  care;  then  she  returned  to  the  room  where  her  father 
sat,  with  his  hollow  eyes  still  fixed  on  the  note,  his  face  full  of  pain 
and  disappointment. 

"  Let  me  put  the  money  away,  papa,"  Dea  said  cheerfully;  "and 
to-morrow  I  will  get  you  everything  you  want.  Now,  I  will  arrange 
your  table  and  dust  your  books." 

There  were  books  bound  in  leather  and  books  bound  in  cloth ; 
some  had  paper  covers  and  some  had  no  covers  at  all ;  they  were 
large  and  small,  thick  and  thin,  old  and  new,  but,  strange  to  say, 
every  book  bore  on  its  title-page  the  name  of  Victor  Hugo.  Some 
were  beautifully  illustrated  Paris  editions,  and  these  illustrations  had 
suggested  certain  figures  and  costumes  to  the  artist  in  wax,  while 
other  studies  had  been  designed  and  colored  entirely  by  himself,  and 
were  the  very  careful  and  correct  work  of  no  common  talent.  Under 
glass  cases  on  a  side-table  were  some  exquisite  groups,  and  on  the 
wall  hung  several  medallions  of  a  lovely  female  head  in  different  posi- 
tions, as  well  as  a  number  of  studies  of  a  child,  all  of  which  bore  d. 
remarkable  resemblance  to  Dea.  It  was  not  difficult  to  imagine  that 
Dea's  mother  had  served  as  a  model  for  the  others. 

While  Dea  arranged  the  table  and  dusted  the  books,  she  talked 
incessantly,  in  a  low,  coaxing  voice.  At  first  her  father  paid  little  atten- 
tion to  her,  then  gradually  his  eyes  brightened  and  his  face  showed  an 
interest,  while  from  time  to  time  he  passed  his  hand  over  his  fore- 
head and  eyes  as  if  he  would  brush  away  some  object  that  clouded 
his  vision. 

It  seemed  as  though  Dea,  by  repeating  what  she  said,  at  last 


/~ 


Id- 


ill 


48 


TOINETTE'S   PHILIP 


impressed  the  subject  on  his  wandering  mind,  and  claimed  his  atten- 
tion almost  by  force,  and  in  spite  of  himself. 

"  Do  you  understand,  cher?"  she  said,  impressively.  "  To-morrow 
the  kind  monsieur  will  buy  Esmeralda;  then  we  will  have  fifty  francs, 
and  fifty  francs  will  last  a  long  while.  We  can  have  a  cudet  and 
salad  for  dinner,  and  old  Susette  can  come  and  work  for  us  again." 

"  Fifty  francs! — are  you  sure,  Dea,  that  we  shall  have  fifty  francs?" 
he  interrupted  with  some  interest.  "Then  I  can  buy  some  colors.  My 
ultramarine  is  all  gone,  and  I  need  some  rose  madder.  I  have  got  to 
color  some  wax,  and  I  must  have  some  colors." 

"  You  shall,  papa.  I  '11  buy  you  some  to-  morrow.  You  can  have 
everything  you  want,"  returned  Dea,  proudly. 

"  Can  I,  my  child  ?  Do  you  think  I  can  ?  Can  I  have  the  Hachette 
edition  of  '  L' Homme  qui  Rit'?  There  are  some  fine  illustrations 
in  it  that  I  should  like  to  copy." 

Dea's  little  face  fell,  and  her  soft  voice  faltered,  "  I  don't  know, 
papa— I  '11  see— I  'U  ask  at  the  shop  on  the  Rue  Royale.  If  it  is  n't 
too  much,  I  '11  try  to  get  it." 

"  It  ought  to  be  had  for  fifty  francs,"  said  the  artist,  dreamily. 

"  But,  papa  dear,  we  can't  spend  the  money  for  books  when  we 

have  no  bread." 

««  Fifty  francs,  fifty  francs,"  he  repeated  complainingly,  "  and  I  can't 
have  the  Hachette  edition  ?  " 

"  Yes,  you  can  some  time.  We  are  going  to  be  rich.  Listen,  papa, 
while  I  tell  you :  the  good  monsieur  who  bought  Quasimodo  is  an 
artist;  he  paints  pictures  instead  of  modeling  en  cire,  and  he  will  pay 
me  to  go  to  his  house  and  sit  for  him,  while  he  paints  a  picture." 

'•  But  you  can't  go  to  his  house,  Dea,  you  can't!"  exclaimed  the 

artist,  excitedly. 

"  He  will  pay  me,  papa,  and  then  I  can  buy  the  book." 

"  Oh,  well,  if  you  can  buy  the  Hachette— perhaps  you  may  go." 


^^■■ 


^m: 


TOINETTES   PHILIP 


49 


id  claimed  his  atten- 

sively.  "To-morrow 
will  have  fifty  fi-ancs, 
n  have  a  cutlet  and 
ivork  for  us  again." 
lall  have  fifty  fi-ancs?" 
buy  some  colors.  My 
adder.    I  have  got  to 

rrow.    You  can  have 

1 1  have  the  Hachette 
)me  fine  illustrations 

ered,  "  I  don't  know, 
le  Roy  ale.    If  it  is  n't 

;  artist,  dreamily. 
r  for  books  when  we 

ainingly,  "and  I  can't 

be  rich.  Listen,  papa, 
ght  Quasimodo  is  an 
!  are,  and  he  will  pay 
paints  a  picture. 
:an't!"  exclaimed  the 

the  book." 
erhaps  you  may  go. 


Dea  turned  away  her  head  and  smiled  faintly.  " /*a«f *  papa," 
she  thought ;  "  he  will  consent  to  almost  anything  for  one  of  Victor 
Hugo's  books." 

"  But,  papa,"  she  continued  tentatively,  as  she  took  one  of  his  long, 
thin  hands  in  hers  and  stroked  it  fondly,  "  I  wish  you  'd  let  the 
painter  come  here  and  see  your  groups;  he  might  buy  one,  and  they 
are  worth  so  much  more  than  the  little  figures.  Can't  he  come  here 
and  see  them  ?  " 

Here,  Dea! — here  in  this  house,  where  I  am  buried?  A 
stranger  here,  and  I  so  ill,  so  poor  ?  No,  no,  child,  you  are  thought- 
less, you  are  cruel !  I  will  never  open  my  door  to  anyone  but  you," 
and  he  glanced  around  restlessly  and  anxiously,  as  if  he  feared  that 
the  stranger  was  about  to  effect  an  ""trance. 

"Well,  never  mind,  cAer,"  said  the  child,  soothingly;  "he  sha'n't 
come  here  if  it  displeases  you.  I  will  take  them  to  him.  You  can 
pack  them  carefully  and  I  will  take  them." 

"  Yes,  you  can  take  them  to  him,  and  I  will  go  to  work  now  and 
finish  something." 

In  nervous  haste  he  arranged  his  lamp  with  its  thick  shade, 
selected  his  wax  and  small  tools,  and  seated  himself  at  the  table  with 
a  magnifying-glass  adjusted  over  his  eye.  He  was  a  tall  man,  and 
handsome  in  spite  of  his  illness ;  his  face  was  intellectual,  and  his 
manners  refined  and  gentle,  and  as  he  worked  swiftly  and  skilfully 
Dea  leaned  over  the  table  and  watched  him  with  fond  pride. 

After  awhile,  when  the  room  was  quite  dark,  the  child  arose  and 
closed  the  blinds  softly;  then  she  went  into  her  father's  room,  which 
was  next  to  hers,  turned  down  his  bed,  drew  his  mosquito-bar,  and 
I  placed  a  carafe  of  fresh  water  on  the  little  table,  "Pauv'  papa,"  she 
thought,  as  she  went  about  the  room  in  a  gentle,  womanly  way.  "  I  hope 
he  will  sleep  to-night,  and  not  groan  and  walk  as  he  did  last  night.  I 
must  try  to  get  the  book ;  he  will  be  so  happy  if  I  get  him  the  book." 


^^i':^-..'-^i^r^' 


^-.H^^^Sft-ateA 


ym 


50 


TOINETTES   PHILIP 


When  she  had  finished  her  preparations  for  his  comfort,  she  went 
to  say  "good  night"  to  him,  and,  as  she  kissed  him,  she  whispered 
anxiously:     "Don't  sit  up  late,  dear  papa;  try  to  sleep  to-night, 

won't  you?" 

"  You  're  a  good  child,  Dea,"  he  said  absently,  as  he  tenderly 
returned  her  caress.  "Go  to  your  bed,  and  don't  worry  about  me. 
I  must  work  now,  and  later— later,  perhaps,  I  will  try  to  get  some 

rest." 

Some  hours  after,  when  Dea  was  sleeping  the  peaceful  sleep  of 
childhood,  her  father  entered  her  room  sofdy,  glanced  at  her  tranquil 
litde  face,  and  at  Homo  stretched  before  her  bed ;  then,  going  to  his 
room,  he  took  his  hat,  with  a  band  of  rusty  crape  around  it,  and  went 
quietly  out  into  the  sweet  moonlit  night,  closing  and  locking  the 
door  behind  him. 


I! 


3»i^,e»im«^ii^S&-f. 


his  comfort,  she  went 
i  him,  she  whispered 
y  to  sleep  to-night, 

ntly,  as  he  tenderly 
sn't  worry  about  me. 
will  try  to  get  some 

the  peaceful  sleep  of 
anced  at  her  tranquil 
d ;  then,  going  to  his 
e  around  it,  and  went 
ing  and  locking  the 


Chapter  IX 

THE    "children"   OF    PilRE   JOSEF 

THE  next  morning,  when  Philip,  rosy  and  fresh  after  a  long 
night's  sleep,  ran  to  P^re  Josef  for  his  lessons,  he  found  the 
gentle  little  priest  already  seated  at  his  books,  with  his  empty 
coffee-cup  before  him. 

"  Mammy  thought  I  'd  be  late ;  I  did  n't  want  to  wake  this  morn- 
ing," said  Philip,  after  the  usual  salutations  were  exchanged. 

"  No,  my  child,  you  're  in  good  time;  the  clock  is  just  on  the 
stroke  of  six,"  replied  Pfere  Josef,  closing  his  book  with  an  air  of  pre- 
occupation ;  "and  I  'm  glad  you  're  punctual,  for  His  Reverence  the 
Archbishop  has  sent  for  me  to  come  to  him  at  nine  o'clock.  I  could 
not  sleep  this  morning,  wondering  what  such  a  message  betokens. 
I  was  up  long  before  dawn,  and  I  thought  that  idle  boy  would  never 
bring  me  my  coffee." 

While  P^re  Josef  was  speaking,  with  some  signs  of  irritation  in 
his  usually  placid  voice,  Philip's  bright  eyes  were  glancing  around 
the  plain  little  room,  as  if  they  were  looking  for  something.  At 
length,  failing  to  see  the  object  of  his  search,  he  asked  eagerly: 
"Where  are  they,  P^re  Josef? — where  are  the  'children'  this 
morning  ?  " 

"  Mes  enfants  f  Oh,  they  were  so  troublesome,  so  really  wicked, 
that  I  was  obliged  to  put  them  in  prison.  Blanche  would  sweep  the 
dust  all  over  my  books,  and  Boule-de-Neige  covered  herself  with 
coffee.  Instead  of  taking  her  lump  of  sugar  properly,  would  you  be- 
lieve it  ?  she  jumped  into  my  saucer  to  help  hers'^lf,  and  came  out 


■  '-■,?yi^t^'^--r.f^^%-'} 


52 


TOINETTE  S   PHILIP 


^1'  I 

'11 

I 


with  her  silky  white  coat  quite  ruined.  Oh,  dear,  dear,  it  was  be- 
cause I  was  distrait  that  they  behaved  so  badly ;  they  thought  I  was 
not  noticing  them ! " 

"  But,  Pfere  Josef,  where  are  they  ?  Can't  I  see  them  a  moment 
before  I  begin  my  lessons  ?  "  asked  Philip  coaxingly. 

"  They  are  locked  up  in  my  armoire,  in  the  dark.  When  their 
spirits  are  too  turbulent,  darkness  is  the  only  thing  that  subdues 
them.  Perhaps  I  have  to  blame  myself  for  their  wickedness,  and  I 
don't  wish  to  excuse  myself  for  my  folly— I  don't  want  any  one  to 
follow  my  example."  Here  P^re  Josef  leaned  toward  Philip  and  whis- 
pered mysteriously,  "  I  should  n't  like  any  one  to  know  it,  my  child; 
but  I  *ve  been  teaching  them  to  dance." 

•'  Oh,  P^re  Josef,  how  funny  that  must  be !    Do  let  me  see  them 

dance ! " 

"  I  can't — I  can't  make  them  dance  now,"  and  P6re  Josef  glanced 
around  furtively.  "  They  won't  dance  without  music — and — and  I 
could  n't  play  the  flute  in  broad  day  with  the  windows  open." 

"  Do  you  play  the  flute,  Fibre  Josef?"  asked  Philip,  his  blue  eyes 
full  of  mirth.  "  How  pretty  it  must  be  to  see  your  '  children '  dance 
while  you  play  the  flute." 

"  Yes,  it  is  very  amusing.  I  feel  young  again  when  I  play  the  flute 
for  them.  It  was  long  ago,  when  I  was  a  boy  at  the  Seminary,  that  I 
learned  to  play,  and  I  was  enchanted  with  it;  but  when  I  took  orders 
I  had  to  give  it  up." 

"  But  why  did  you  have  to  give  it  up,  P^re  Josef?  "  asked  Philip 
with  gentle  sympathy. 

"  Because,  my  dear  child,  when  we  offer  ourselves  to  le  Bon  Dieu 
we  must  resign  many  things  we  love.  I  loved  my  flute.  It  came  be- 
tween me  and  my  duties,  and  I  gave  it  up ;  for  years  and  years  I 
never  saw  it.  -  Now  I  'm  an  old  man,  and  I  take  it  out  again,  I  con- 
fess it  with  shame,"  and  a  flush  of  contrition  passed  over  Pfere  Josefs 


.'  -ais.„L^  ':L..«>^^'^(t«a&ytj"Mi:iVli., 


ar,  dear,  it  was  be- 
they  thought  I  was 

iee  them  a  moment 

;  dark.  When  their 
thing  that  subdues 
ir  wickedness,  and  I 
)n't  want  any  one  to 
^ard  Philip  and  whis- 
)  know  it,  my  child; 

Do  let  me  see  them 

d  P6re  Josef  glanced 
music — and — and  I 
ndows  open." 
Phjlip,  his  blue  eyes 
our  '  children '  dance 

when  I  play  the  flute 
;  the  Seminary,  that  I 
t  when  I  took  orders 

Josef?  "  asked  Philip 

* 

selves  to  le  Bon  Dieu 
ly  flute.  It  came  be- 
»r  years  and  years  I 
B  it  out  again,  I  con- 
sed  over  Pfere  Josefs 


TOINETTE!s   PHILIP 


^% 


53 


pale,  nr  rrow  face ;  "  my  child,  I  confess  it  with  shame.  I  love  it  as 
well  ds  I  ever  did,  and,  strange  to  say,  I  am  secretly  glad  because  I 
remember  all  the  old  tunes,  and  I  'm  playing  them  to  teach  my 
•children'  how  to  dance.  You  're. a  good,  discreet  boy,  and  you  won't 
repeat  my  confidences.  While  I  'm  speaking  of  it,  I  may  as  well  tell 
you  of  my  fears,  which  prevented  my  sleeping  last  night.  It  seems 
strange,  this  summons  from  the  Archbishop.  Do  you  think  he  can 
have  heard  of  my  folly — my  levity,  and  has  he  sent  for  me  to  re- 
prove me  ?  " 

"  Oh,  P^re  Josef,  you  're  so  good,"  cried  Philip  warmly,  "  the  Arch- 
bishop won't  reprove  you  for  a  little  thing  like  that." 

"  I  trust  not,  I  hope  not ;  still  I  am  anxious.  His  Reverence  may 
have  heard  of  it,  and  he  may  think  that  I  am  not  attending  to  my 
duties ;  but,  my  dear  boy,  I  have  been  very  careful  not  to  allow  my 
'children'  to  interfere  with  my  work,  and  I  have  never  played  on 
my  flute  except  late  at  night,  or  very  early  in  ihe  morning,  when 
others  are  sleeping." 

"  If  no  one  heard  you,"  said  Philip  wisely,  "  no  one  could  have 
told  His  Reverence,  so  I  would  n't  be  unhappy  about  that,  P^re 
Josef." 

"  Eh  bien/  I. shall  know  soon.  In  the  mean  time  I  think  my  poor 
'children'  have  been  punished  enough.  I  will  let  them  out  for  you  to 
have  a  little  glimpse  of  them  before  you  begin  your  lessons.  They 
are  charming  this  morning." 

As  he  spoke,  P^re  Josef  went  briskly  into  his  little  sleeping- 
room,  and  presently  returned,  bringing  a  small  wire  cage  in  which 
were  a  number  of  tiny  white  mice.  As  he  set  the  cage  on  the  table 
the  lively  little  animals  began  to  scamper  and  scurry  from  one  side  to 
the  other  of  their  small  house,  their  little  upright  ears  and  pink  eyes 
looking  very  alert  and  mischievous. 

"  Oh,  look,  look!"  cried  Philip,  "  they  are  playing  Colin- Maiiiard." 


54 


TOINETTES   PHILIP 


i  .1 


% 


"  The  little  rogues,  their  punishment  has  n't  done  them  the  least 
good,"  said  P6re  Josef,  standing  ofif  and  looking  at  them  admir- 
ingly. 

Suddenly  one  of  the  tiniest  seized  a  small  broom,  made  by  cut- 


"pftRE   JOSEF    SOFTLY    WHISTLED    AN    OLD    WALTZ." 


ting  short  the  handle  of  a  brush  for  water-colors,  and  began  sweeping 
the  floor  of  the  cage  furiously,  making  a  great  fuss  and  confusion,  as 
she  scattered  her  companions  to  the  right  and  left.  When  she  had 
finished  this  domestic  duty  to  her  satisfaction,  she  shouldered  her 


)ne  them  the  least 
ig  at  them  admir- 

3om,  made  by  cut- 


.    yi^^iCM-^^. 


TOINETTES   PHILIP 


55 


lLTZ.' 


and  began  sweeping. 

iss  and  confusion,  as 

;ft.     When  she  had 

she  shouldered  her 


broom  and  trotted  off  on  her  hind  legs  to  stand  it  carefully  in  one 
corner. 

"  Is  n't  Blanche  amusing  this  morning?"  said  Philip,  as  he  hung 
enraptured  over  the  cage;  "and  look  at  poor  Boule-de-Neige  with 
her  little  coat  all  coffee-stained;  how  unhappy  she  seems!  Now, 
P^re  Josef,  can't  you  drill  them  for  just  a  minute  ?  I  have  n't  seen 
them  drill  for  ever  so  long." 

P^re  Josef  could  not  resist  the  temptation  to  show  off  the  ac- 
complishments of  his  'children,'  so  he  seated  himself,  and,  with  his 
thin  dark  face  close  to  Philip's  rosy  cheeks  as  they  pressed  near  the 
cage,  began  in  a  clear  distinct  voice  an  exercise  which  they  followed 
exactly,  marching  in  single  file,  closing  up,  and  facing  to  the  right 
or  left  as  they  were  ordered,  standing  erect  on  their  little  hind  legs 
and  going  through  their  manoeuvers  with  the  greatest  gravity  and 
precision. 

Philip  was  almost  beside  himself  with  delight;  they  were  wonder- 
ful, they  were  enchanting!  and  while  he  and  P^re  Josef  watched  their 
antics  they  paid  no  heed  to  the  flight  of  time.  After  they  had  finished 
their  miniature  drill,  P^re  Josef  softly,  and  with  several  nervous 
glances  in  the  direction  of  doors  and  windows,  whistled  an  old  walt^, 
and  straightway  the  tiny  sprites  began  to  step  and  whirl  in  time  to 
the  tune ;  and  never  did  Pan  in  a  sylvan  dell  pipe  to  merrier  little 
elves  than  these ;  and  while  Pan  piped  and  the  elves  danced  Philip's 
books  lay  neglected,  and  P^re  Josef  had  forgotten  the  summons  of 
His  Reverence  the  Archbishop. 

Suddenly  the  little  priest  started  up  and  looked  at  his  clock  in 
dismay;  he  had  spent  nearly  an  hour  amusing  himself  with  his  'chil- 
dren.' Taking  a  red-and-yellow  silk  handkerchief  he  threw  it  reso- 
lutely over  the  cage,  and,  turning  to  Philip,  he  said :  "  Come,  come, 
my  child,  we  are  wasting  our  time, —  and  that  is  wrong.  The  lit- 
tle rogues  are  so  fascinating  that  I  forget  where  I  am  when  I  watch 


■■1^^\W 


Hi  i' '  4 


56 


TOINETTE'S   PHILIP 


them.  Perhaps,  after  all,  the  Archbishop  would  do  no  more  than  his 
duty  if  he  reproved  me  for  such  a  foolish  infatuation." 

Philip  took  his  books  rather  reluctantly,  and,  as  he  tried  to 
study,  he  seemed  to  see  the  tiny  white  "children"  of  Pfere  Josef  dan- 
cing and  whirling  between  the  letters. 

When  the  clock  struck  eight  he  was  obliged  to  leave,  so  he 
picked  up  his  books  hurriedly,  and  went  away  without  ever  thmkmg 
of  the  question  he  had  intended  to  ask  P^re  Josef 


I    i 


I 


o  no  more  than  his 
ion. 

nd,  as  he  tried  to 
of  Pfere  Josef  dan- 

ed  to  leave,  so  he 
thout  ever  thinking 


Chapter  X 


THE    LITTLE    MODELS 


MR.  AiNswoRTH  was  sitting  at  his  easel  in  his  improvised  studio 
on  an  upper  floor  of  the  high  house  on  Rue  Royale.  Al- 
though it  was  only  a  temporary  arrangement,  the  room  was 
really  lovely.  On  the  walls,  which  were  artistically  draped  with  rich 
foreign  stuffs,  were  a  great  many  charming  sketches.  About  the 
room,  on  tables,  on  brackets,  and  even  on  the  floor,  were  bright- 
colored  jars  and  pots  filled  with  palms,  ferns,  and  various  slender- 
leaved  graceful  plants,  which  gave  the  place  a  cool,  bowery  effect. 
There  were  pictures  on  the  easels,  old  china  and  bronzes  on  the 
shelves,  books  and  magazines  scattered  about  in  the  negligent  fash- 
ion affected  by  artists.  On  a  low  sofa,  covered  with  a  Turkish  rug, 
lay  a  young  woman ;  she  was  slender  and  dark,  and  her  thin  cheeks 
had  a  feverish  flush.  One  hand  was  under  her  head,  the  other  held 
a  book,  at  which  she  did  not  even  glance.  She  wore  a  loose  white 
woolen  gown  heavily  embroidered  with  black,  and  a  rich  black  shawl 
was  folded  over  her  feet.  She  would  have  been  handsome  had  she 
not  looked  so  ill  and  unhappy.  From  time  to  time  she  coughed  and 
moved  restlessly.  The  sofa  was  drawn  up  to  an  open  window, 
through  which  the  soft  spring  air  entered,  gently  rustling  the  slender 
spikes  of  the  palm  that  shaded  it. 

Mr.  Ainsworth  was  putting  the  finishing-touches  to  a  pretty 
bayou  scene ;  he  was  working  very  busily ;  at  length  he  looked  up 
and  said  anxiously:  "Is  n't  there  too  much  wind  from  that  win- 
dow, Laura  ?  " 


sr 


58 


TOINETTES    PHILIP 


•*  No,"  she  returned  in  a  weak,  fretful  voice.  "I  can't  live  without 
air.     As  it  is  I  can  scarcely  breathe." 

"  Are  you  feeling  worse  this  morning,  dear  ? "  questioned  Mr. 
Ainsworth  gently,  still  touching  his  picture  carefully  and  deftly. 

"  I  don't  know,  really.  I  feel  so  badly  all  the  time.  It  seems  as 
if  my  weakness  increased." 

"  My  darling,  you  are  fretting  yourself  to  death.  Try  to  get 
above  your  sorrow.     Try,  as  I  do.     I  try  to  forget ;  I  try  to  work. " 

"  I  can't  forget,  Edward ;  I  don't  want  to  forget.  It  is  six 
months  to-day  since  we  lost  him — our  boy,  our  only  one.  Oh,  what 
have  we  done  to  be  so  afflicted ! "  she  cried  bitterly. 

"  Dear  Laura,  don't  look  at  it  in  that  way.  It  may  not  have 
been  to  punish  us ;  it  may  have  been  infinite  love  for  our  child.  Try 
to  think  so,  dear,  and  it  will  lighten  your  sorrow.  Cheer  up  for  my 
sake.  You  have  this  heavenly  spring  morning.  Listen  to  the  birds 
singing  in  the  court  below ;  smell  the  perfume  of  the  orange-blos- 
soms, the  jasmine,  the  roses ;  look  at  the  sunlight  on  the  roofs,  see  how 
the  golden  rays  burnish  that  royal  magnolia  in  the  garden  opposite." 

••  There  are  no  singing  birds,  no  perfumes,  no  sunlight  for  him  in 
his  dark  little  grave,"  she  cried,  with  a  passionate  outburst  of  tears. 

"  Try  to  look  away  from  his  grave ;  think  of  life  instead  of  death ; 
think  of  other  children  who  live  and  only  live  to  suffer ;  think  of  the 
sad  life  of  that  child  I  bought  the  wax  figure  from  yesterday,"  and 
Mr.  Ainsworth  glanced  at  Quasimodo,  standing  in  state  on  a  bracket 
with  a  piece  of  royal  purple  velvet  behind  him.  "The  little  girl  in- 
terested me,  Laura,  but  not  so  much  as  did  the  boy.  Don't  think 
I  'm  fanciful,  but  it  seems  to  me  that  he  looks  remarkably  like  our  boy. 
He  is  about  the  same  age,  and,  strange  to  say,  his  name  is  Philip." 
"  The  same  name ;  that  is  a  singular  coincidence,"  said  Mrs.  Ains- 
worth, rising  languidly  and  looking  slightly  interested;  "but  L don't 
see  how  a  little  street-gamin  can  resemble  our  boy." 


r- 


TOINETTES   PHILIP 


59 


'  I  can't  live  without 

?"  questioned  Mr. 
illy  and  deftly, 
time.     It  seems  as 

death.     Try  to  get 
ret ;  I  try  to  work." 

forget.  It  is  six 
>nly  one.  Oh,  what 
ly. 

It  may  not  have 
:  for  our  child.  Try 
.     Cheer  up  for  my 

Listen  to  the  birds 
of  the  orange-blos- 
)n  the  roofs,  see  how 
le  garden  opposite." 
)  sunlight  for  him  in 
;e  outburst  of  tears, 
ife  instead  of  death ; 

suffer ;  think  of  the 
rom  yesterday,"  and 
in  state  on  a  bracket 

"The  little  girl  in- 
e  boy.  Don't  think 
arkably  like  our  boy. 
'tis  name  is  Philip." 
nee,"  said  Mrs.  Ains- 
rested;  "but  I  don't 
oy." 


'  My  dear,  he  does  n\  seem  a  street-gamin.  He  seems  sin- 
j,'ularly  gentle  and  refined;  but  you  will  see  for  yourself.  I  think 
they  will  come  this  morning.  The  poor  little  girl  is  so  anxious  to 
sell  Esmeralda,  and  the  boy  was  so  interested  when  I  told  him  about 
my  pictures.  You  should  have  seen  his  blue  eyes  light  up." 
"  Has  he  6/ue  eyes  ?  " 

"  Yes,  that  deep  violet  blue  like  our  boy's,  and  the  same  thick 
curling  brown  hair.  Of  course  his  clothes  were  plain,  but  they  were 
clean,  and  he  looked  so  fresh  and  sweet — a  child  that  any  one  could 
love." 

Even  while  Mr.  Ainsworth  was  speaking  there  was  a  timid  knock 
at  the  door,  and  when  he  answered  it,  there  stood  the  two  charming 
little  models,  shy  and  tremulous,  but  with  a  determined  expression  on 
each  small  face. 

"  You  see,  I  've  brought  Dea,"  said  Philip,  sweetly  elated  at  his 
success.  He  looked  very  handsome ;  he  was  warm  and  rosy,  and  the 
heavy  curls  lay  in  damp  rings  on  his  white  forehead.  Toinette  had 
dressed  him  in  his  best  suit,  a  white  linen  shirt  and  new  blue  trousers  ; 
he  held  in  one  hand  a  straw  hat  and  with  the  other  he  clasped  Dea, 
as  if  he  feared  she  might  escape  even  then. 

The  little  girl's  softly  tinted  face  was  very  expressive,  her  eyes 
were  full  of  expectation  and  surprise,  her  lips  were  parted  in  a  faint, 
shy  smile.  She  looked  healthier  and  happier  and  altogether  very 
lovely ;  with  one  hand  she  clung  to  Philip,  and  with  the  other  she 
carried  the  small  basket  in  which  Esmeralda's  fanciful  costume  and 
the  gilded  horns  of  the  goat  made  a  bright  bit  of  color. 

Mr.  Ainsworth's  face  beamed  with  satisfaction  as  he  led  the 
children  to  his  wife.  "  Here,  Laura,"  he  said  smilingly,  "  here  are 
my  little  models.    What  do  you  think  of  them  ?  " 

Mrs.  Ainsworth  did  not  notice  Dea,  but  her  dark  eyes  rested  on 
Philip  with  a  strange  bewilderment  of  pain  and  surprise.     She  did 


6o 


TOINETTES    PHILIP 


*  .■ 
t 


not  speak,  but  after  a  moment  of  silence  she  turned  away  her  head, 
and  covering  her  face  with  her  thin  hands  began  to  cry  passionately, 
*•  She  sees  the  likeness  as  I  did,"  thought  Mr.  Ainsworth,  as  Ik- 
led  the  children  to  another  part  of  the  room;  he  did  not  wish  them  to 
be  distressed  by  the  sight  of  his  wife's  sorrow.  With  great  tact  he 
first  sought  to  amuse  and  interest  them  by  friendly  little  attentions. 
He  showed  them  his  curios,  his  pictures,  his  flowers;  he  gave  them 
fruit  and  bonbons;  he  slipped  a  five-dollar  note  into  Dea's  basket, 
and  installed  Esmeralda  on  the  bracket  beside  Quasimodo;  and  after 
awhile,  when  they  were  quite  at  home,  he  put  a  fresh  canvas  on  his 
easel  and  posed  them  for  a  study.  Philip  was  a  little  restless,  at  first; 
he  wished  to  see  the  actual  picture  making,  and  would  have  preferred 
to  watch  Mr.  Ainsworth  at  his  work.  But  Dea  stood  like  a  small 
statue ;  she  was  accustomed  to  it ;  she  had  patiently  sat  many  an  hour 
for  her  father. 

While  Mr.  Ainsworth  painted,  completely  absorbed  in  his  fasci- 
nating little  subjects,  Mrs.  Ainsworth  drew  an  easy-chair  near  the 
children  and  sat  silently  looking  at  Philip.  Mr.  Ainsworth  wished  to 
make  their  first  visit  so  agreeable  that  they  would  like  to  come  again; 
therefore  while  he  worked  he  chatted  pleasantly  to  them  and  encour- 
aged them  to  talk  freely  to  him  in  return.  He  was  interested  to 
know  by  what  means  the  artist  in  wax  had  been  brought  to  consent 
to  his  proposal.  After  several  discreet  questions  he  drew  from  Dea 
the  shy  avowal,  that  she  had  come  to  earn  the  money  to  buy  the 
Hachette  edition,  and  that  her  pauv'  papa  had  allowed  her  to  sit  for 
the  painter  in  the  hope  that  she  would  get  him  the  much-coveted 
book. 

While  Dea  told  her  touching  little  story,  Mr.  Ainsworth  glanced 
at  his  wife ;  she  was  looking  at  Philip,  but  she  was  listening  to  Dea. 
There  was  a  softer  expression  on  her  face,  and  she  looked  less 
unhappy. 


BJiTi 


TOINETTES    PHILIP 


6i 


ned  away  her  hcail, 

to  cry  passionately. 

r.  Ainsworth,  as  lu; 
did  not  wish  them  to 

With  great  tact  he 
idly  little  attentions, 
►wers;  he  gave  them 
into  Dea's  basket, 

uasimodo;  and  after 
,  fresh  canvas  on  his 
little  restless,  at  first; 
would  have  preferred 
a  stood  like  a  small 
ntly  sat  many  an  hour 

absorbed  in  his  fasci- 
i  easy-chair  near  the 
.  Ainsworth  wished  to 
Id  like  to  come  again ; 
y  to  them  and  encour- 
He  was  interested  to 
:n  brought  to  consent 
ns  he  drew  from  Dea 
:he  money  to  buy  the 
allowed  her  to  sit  for 
lim  the  much-coveted 

ir.  Ainsworth  glanced 

was  listening  to  Dea. 

and  she  looked  less 


At  last,  after  a  fairly  long  sitting,  the  artist  told  his  little  models 
that  he  was  done  with  them  for  the  morning,  and  they  were  as 
|)leased  to  regain  their  liberty  as  a  pair  of  birds  would  be  that  had 
been  unexpectedly  caged  for  an  hour. 

"  We  must  go  now,"  said  Philip,  with  lingering  and  longing  iL^oks 
at  the  canvas,  on  which  there  already  appeared  a  fair  study  of  him- 
self and  his  little  companion.  "  I  'd  like  to  stay  and  watch  you  paint, 
hut  I  can't  to-day.  Seline  is  taking  care  of  my  flowers,  and  1  must 
go  and  sell  them." 

"And  Homo  is  asleep  under  her  table,"  joined  in  Dea;  "I  tdd 
him  to  wait  for  me,  and  he  '11  think  I  'm  not  coming." 

"  But  you  will  be  sure  to  be  here  to-morrow } "  said  Mr.  Ains- 
worth, looking  from  one  to  the  other.  "Here  is  your  pay  for  being 
such  good  little  models,"  and  as  he  spoke  he  handed  a  bright  silver 
dollar  to  each. 

Philip  smiled  delightedly.  "Thank  you,  monsieur,"  he  said  ;  "I 
would  have  to  sell  flowers  all  day  to  make  as  much." 

Dea's  little  face  was  a  study ;  she  turned  the  dollar  over  and 
over  and  looked  at  it  as  though  she  doubted  her  senses.  "A  dollar 
— five  francs!"  she  said  joyfully.  "Oh,  monsieur,  is  it  enough  to 
buy  the  book  ?  " 

"  No,  my  dear,  I  think  not ;  but  when  you  come  to-morrow  I  will 
see  what  can  be  done." 

"And,  monsieur,  may  I — may  I  bring  one  of  papa's  groups  for 
you  to  look  at? "asked  Dea,  hesitatingly.  "There's  one  of  the 
'Toilers.'     It   is   very   pretty." 

"The 'Toilers'?" 

"  Yes,  monsieur,  'The  Toilers  of  the  Sea.'     May  I  bring  it?" 

"  Why,  certainly,  my  dear.  I  should  like  to  see  it.  If  I  don't 
buy  it  myself,  some  of  my  friends  may." 

"  But,  monsieur,  it  is  very  dear;  papa  says  it  is  worth  a  hundred 


r- 


62 


TOINETTES   PHIMP 


francs.     It  is  large,  you  know— ^as  large  as  this,"  and  Dea  held  her 
small  hands  apart  to  give  the  artist  some  idea  of  the  size. 

"  It  's  too  large  for  you  to  bring,  is  n't  it? " 

"  Philip  will  help  me,"  she  said  confidently. 

"  Yes,  I  *11  help  you,  Dea.  It 's  too  big  for  a  girl  like  you,  but 
it 's  not  too  big  for  me.  Come  on,  now,  let  *s  go."  Then,  turning 
politely,  he  held  out  his  hand  to  Mrs.  Ainsworth.  "Good-by,"he 
said  sweetly. 

Mrs.  Ainsworth  took  the  little  brown  hand  and  drew  the  boy 
close  to  her ;  for  a  moment  she  looked  into  his  eyes,  then  she  put  her 
arms  around  him  and  kissed  him.  Dea  came  forward  and  aJso  re- 
ceived a  kind  caress.  It  was  kind,  but  it  was  not  like  the  kiss  she 
had  given  Philip. 

"  They  are  charming,"  she  said,  looking  at  her  husband  with  a 
smile,  the  first  he  had  seen  on  her  lips  for  many  a  day. 

"  Au  revoir,  monsieur,"  said  Dea  at  the  door.  Philip  was  half- 
way down-stairs  in  his  impatience  to  show  his  bright  dollar  to  Seline. 

"Au  revoir.     I  will  bring  the  'Toilers'  to-morrow." 


'X 


'  and  Dea  held  her 
the  size. 


a  girl  like  you,  but 
^o."  Then,  turning 
th.     "Good-by,"he 

1  and  drew  the  boy 
es,  then  she  put  her 
jrward  and  also  re- 
ot  like  the  kiss  she 

ler  husband  with  a 

.ny  a  day. 

r.     Philip  was  half- 

ght  dollar  to  Seline. 

)rrow." 


A 


w 


Chapter  XI 


PERE   JOSEFS    SACRIFICE 


WHEN  Philip  and  Dea  ran  to  Seline  and  showed  her  the 
bright  dollars  they  had  earned  so  quickly,  the  good  woman 
was  delighted.  "  Now,  chil'run,  you  's  on  der  way  to  git 
rich,"  she  said,  showing  her  white  teeth  in  a  generous  smile.  "I 
wish  m'sieur  would  wan'ter  paint  my  Lilybel ;  but  he  's  too  ugly. 
Lilybel  's  er  fright,  he  is,  an'  I  don't  see  how  cum  dat  boy  's  so  plain ; 
his  pa  was  a  right  hansum  man,  and  his  two  little  sisters  was  as 
pretty  chil'run  ar.  you  ever  seed.  Sometimes,  when  I  gets  ter 
studyin'  'bout  Lilybel,  I  's  most  outdone,"  and  Seline's  broad  smile 
changed  tc  an  expression  of  great  perplexity.  "I  ain'tjes'  sure  ef 
dat  boy  means  ter  tell  lies,  er  if  he  'magines  what  he  done  tole ;  he  's 
got  a  powerful  'magination,  Lilybel  has,  an'  a  awful  weak  mem'ry. 
Anyhow,  I  can't  put  no  conference  in  dat  chile ;  I  's  done  found  out 
'bout  dat  story  he  tole,  chil'run  ?  Ae  aitCt  never  fall  in  der  ruverf  He 
jus'  sot  down  with  er  pa'sel  of  triflin'  chil'run  an'  stuffed  heself  with 
dem  cakes  an'  pralines,  an'  forgot  ter  bring  der  basket  home." 

Philip  and  Dea  expressed  their  opinion  of  Lilybel's  too  vivid  im- 
agination in  a  way  that  comforted  Seline  gready ;  their  happiness 
was  hers,  and  very  soon  she  forgot  her  own  troubles  in  listening  to 
their  glowing  account  of  the  morning's  adventures. 

"  SeUne,  !t  's  the  mosi  beautiful  place  you  ever  saw;  and  he 's  got 
lots  of  piictures!  He  's  painted  them  himself.  He  wants  us  to  come 
again;  and  Madam  kissed  us  both— did  n't  she,  Dea.?— and  told 
us  to  come  to-morrow." 


",'•4 

4 


64 


TOINETTES   PHILIP 


.  "  And  I  am  to  bring  the  '  Toilers,' "  exclaimed  Dea,  her  little  face 
tremulous  with  excitement.  "  Monsieur  is  going  to  help  me  sell  it 
for  a  hundred  francs;  pauv'  papa  will  be  so  happy." 

"  My,  my !  a  hundred  francs !  Yer  is  in  luck,  chile;  yer  's  goin  ter 
be  rich,  shore;  an'.  Mars*  Philip,  I  's  done  sole  all  yer  flowers  while 
yer 's  been  gettin'  yer  dollar.  I  s'pose  yer  wants  ter  run  home  ter 
tell  yer  mammy  all  dem  good  newses;  here  's  yer  dimes";  and  Seline 
dropped  a  handful  of  silver  into  Philip's  outstretched  palm.  Then, 
as  happy  and  blithe  as  two  singing  birds,  the  children  hurried  to 
their  respective  homes  to  tell  of  their  good  fortune. 

When  Philip  opened  the  gate  and  saw  Toinette  with  folded 
hands  sitting  quietly  on  the  little  gallery,  he  was  alarmed.  It  was  so 
unusual  to  see  her  idle  that  he  thought  she  was  ill.  "What 's  the 
matter,  Mammy?"  he  called  out  anxiously  before  he  reached  her. 

"  Nothing,  cher"  she  replied,  as  she  took  off  his  hat  and  stroked 
his  damp  hair.  "  I  had  no  orders  for  this  evening,  and  I  was  tired, 
so  I  dropped  down  here  to  rest;  I  can't  work  so  hard  as  I  used  to." 

'•  Well,  you  need  n't  to.  Mammy.  I  can  earn  lots  for  you.  Just 
look  at  this,"  and  he  drew  out  his  bright  dollar.  "All  this  for  an 
hour  or  two! " 

"  The  artist  must  be  very  generous,"  said  Toinette.  "  Did  he 
give  Dea  as  much?" 

"Yes,  Mammy,  he  gave  Dea  the  same.  I  wish  you  could  see 
the  picture  of  us  he  's  painting ;  he  's  got  Dea's  red  frock  and  my  blue 
trousers  just  as  natural! — when  it 's  done  I  'm  going  to  take  you  to 
see  it." 

"  It 's  a  long  way  to  go,  my  child,  and  I  may  not  be  able.  I  'm 
not  so  strong  as  I  used  to  be;  but  put  your  money  away;  keep  it  for 
yourself — it 's  yours." 

"  No,  Mammy,  you  take  it.  It 's  for  you;  all  I  earn  is  for  you,"  said 
Philip,  his  eyes  filled  with  love  and  generosity  as  he  urged  it  upon  her. 


TOINETTE  S   PHILIP 


65 


[  Dea,  her  little  face 

g  to  help  me  sell  it 
» 

py- 

chile;  yer  's  goin  ter 
ill  yer  flowers  while 
ts  ter  run  home  ter 
r  dimes";  and  Seline 
tched  palm.  Then, 
children  hurried  to 
rtune. 

roinette  with  folded 
5  alarmed.  It  was  so 
LS  ill.  "What's  the 
re  he  reached  her. 
F  his  hat  and  stroked 
ng,  and  I  was  tired, 
3  hard  as  I  used  to." 
n  lots  for  you.  Just 
ar.    "All  this  for  an 

Toinette.     "Did  he 

wish  you  could  see 

red  frock  and  my  blue 

going  to  take  you  to 

y  not  be  able.     I  'm 
ney  away;  keep  it  for 

I  earn  is  for  you,"  said 
s  he  urged  it  upon  her. 


"  Well,  we  will  lock  it  up  in  the  box,  and  when  you  need  it  for 
something,  you  shall  have  it.  And  now,  my  child,  I  want  you  to 
help  me.  I  must  transplant  these  pansies  this  evening,  and  for  some 
reason  I  felt  as  if  I  could  n't  begin  until  you  came." 

"  I  '11  help  you.  Mammy  dear;  just  let  me  take  off  my  best 
clothes,"  said  Philip,  cheerfully,  as  he  ran  to  his  room. 

"What  a  good  boy  he  is!"  thought  Toinette, — "so  gentle  and 
obedient !  Dear,  dear  child,  who  will  love  him  as  I  have  ?  "  And  as 
she  went  slowly  down  the  steps  to  the  garden,  she  brushed  away 
more  than  one  regretful  tear. 

A  half  hour  later,  Philip,  in  his  every-day  clothes,  was  working 
away  busily  at  the  pansies,  while  Toinette  sat  on  a  little  stool  beside 
him,  directing  him  hpw  to  set  them.  The  boy,  with  his  brown  head 
bent  over  the  new  earth,  was  whistling  softly.  Presently  a  beautiful 
cardinal-bird  flew  down  and  began  fluttering  familiarly  about  his 
small  spade.  "Go  away.  Major,"  he  said,  without  stopping;  "I 
can't  play  with  you  now,  but  there  's  a  nice  fat  worm  for  you."  The 
bird  gave  a  low  trill  of  thanks,  seized  the  unwilling  worm,  and  flew 
off  to  a  near  bush,  where  he  chirped  contentedly  to  his  mate. 

"  Hello,  there's  the  Singer!  "  said  Philip  after  a  moment.  "  I  knew 
he  'd  come."  As  he  spoke  a  mocking-bird  over  his  head  burst  into 
a  clear,  impatient  song,  circling  rapidly  around,  and  brushing  him 
with  his  wings  as  if  to  attract  his  attention, 

"It's  strange,'  said  Toinette,  musingly,  "how  birds  and  butter- 
flies come  around  you  ;  they  never  fear  you.  I  suppose  it 's  because 
yo  1  never  hurt  them." 

"  It's  because  I  love  them  and  they  know  it, —  that  's  why  they 
I  've  lived  here  a  long  time  with  them  ;  it 's  our  home ;  we  're 


come. 


all  one  family,  and.  Mammy,  you  're  the  dear  old  mother-bird." 

He  kept  on  working  with  his  bright  head  bent,  and  he  did  not 
see  the  tears  in  Toinette's  eyes.     It  was  very  lovely  and  peaceful. 


if; 


m 


:ia 


f 


66 


TOINETTHS   PHILIP 


The  place  was  full  of  sweet  scents  and  sounds.      The  broken  whitel 
columns,  covered  with  a  profusion  of  rrses  and  jasmine,  looked  likeal 
bower  in  a  sylvan  nook  of  Arcady.      The  ruins  of  the  De1;rava  man-  f 
sion  were  mounds  of  green  and  bloom  ;  there  was  nothing  dreary, 
nothing  unsightly,  no  suggestion  of  age  and  decay  ;  but  all  spoke  of  I 
youth  —  fresh,  eternal  youth.    Perhaps  it  was  the  strong  contrast  of 
the  boy,  the  flowers,  and  the  singing  birds  that  made  Toinette  feel  so  1 
old  and  feeble  as  she  sat  there,  her  toil-worn  hands  folded  on  her  lap, 
and  her  dim  eyes  fixed  with  a  tender,  protecting  love  on  the  merry  little 
fellow  who  worked  in  happy  unconsciousness  of  the  sorrows  of  age. 
Presently  the  gate-bell  rang,  and  its  loud  jangle  startled  Philip 
from  his  work  and  Toinette  from  her  reverie.    "  Run,  child !  it  is  some 
one  in  a  hurry  "  ;  and  Toinette  left  her  seat  and  hastened  to  meet  the 
new-comer.     It  was  P^re  Josef.     He  walked  up  the  path  very  hur- 
riedly, brushing  the  obtrusive  roses  with  the  skirts  of  his  worn  black 
coat.      His  narrow  dark  face  wore  an  expression  of  mingled  surprise 
and  sorrow.     In  one  hand  he  carried  a  bundle  tied  up  in  a  red-and- 
yellow  handkerchief.     Without  glancing  to  the  right  or  left,  he  has- 
tened up  the  steps  to  the  gallery,  and  set  the  bundle  on  the  small 
table  with  an  air  of  resolution. 

"Toinette,  my  good  friend!  Philip,  my  dear  boy!  I  've  brought 
them  to  you.  There  they  are,  mes  enfants,  mes  chers  petites  en/ants." 
He  spoke  firmly,  but  in  a  sad,  constrained  voice. 

Toinette  and  Philip  looked  at  him,  astonished.     "  Why,  P^re 
Josef,  why  do  you  do  this  ?  "  said  Toinette. 

"  Die  His  Reverence  tell  you  you  must?"  asked  Philip,  anxiously. 
"Did  he  know  about  your  pets ? " 

"  No,  no,  my  dear  boy ;  he  had  heard  nothing.  It  was  a  matter 
of  more  importance.  I  was  unwise  to  think  the  Archbishop  would 
trouble  himself  about  such  folly.  He  sent  for  me  to  give  me  in- 
structions.    I  am  to  leave  on  a  mission.     I  go  to-night." 


The  broken  white! 
smine,  looked  like  a| 
f  the  De'.;rava  man- 
vas  nothing  dreary, 
y  ;  but  all  spoke  of 
;  strong  contrast  of 
ade  Toinette  feel  so 
ds  folded  on  her  lap, 
re  on  the  merry  little ' 
the  sorrows  of  age. 
.ngle  startled  Philip 
Lun,  child !  it  is  some 
nastened  to  meet  the 
)  the  path  very  hur- 
ts of  his  worn  black 
I  of  mingled  surprise 
led  up  in  a  red-and- 
right  or  left,  he  has- 
bundle  on  the  small 

•  boy!   I  've  brought 
•hers petites  enf ants'' 

ished.     "Why,  P^re 

ced  Philip,  anxiously. 

ng.  It  was  a  matter 
he  Archbishop  would 
r  me  to  give  me  in- 
to-night." 


f,/««- 


li 


■f 


TOINETTES    PHILIP 


69 


"Oh,  ?hre  Josef,  to-night!  Is  it  far?  Will  it  be  for  long?" 
cried  Toinette  and  Philip  in  the  same  breath. 

"  I  can't  say.  I  can't  tell  you  anything.  I  'm  like  a  ship  sailing 
under  sealed  orders;  but  from  some  remarks  of  His  Reverence,  I 
think  it  will  not  be  for  long.  I  go  to  do  the  work  of  a  brother  who 
is  ill.     When  he  recovers,  it  is  likely  I  shall  return." 

"  But  can't  you  take  the  'children'  with  you,  P^re  josef?"  asked 
Philip.     "You  will  be  so  unhappy  without  them." 

"My  child,  I  mtgAi  take  them,  and  I  shall  be  miserable  without 
them ;  but  it  would  scarcely  be  proper  for  a  servant  of  the  Church 
to  start  on  a  sacred  mission  carrying  a  cage  of  white  mice  with  him  "  ; 
and  P^re  Joseph  smiled  grimly.  "It 's  a  sacrifice,  a  trial ;  but  I  must 
leave  them." 

"  And  they  have  been  so  much  company,  such  a  pleasure  to  you," 
said  Toinette,  with  ready  sympathy. 

"  Yes,  and  that  is  just  where  I  have  done  wrong.  I  have  made 
companions  of  these  innocent  little  animals, —  I  have  grown  to  love 
them, — and  now  I  see  that  I  have  neglected  my  duties.  My  good 
friend,  I  have  spent  many  hours  teaching  these  creatures  folly,  when 
I  should  have  been  teaching  human  beings  something  useful.  Life 
is  too  short  to  waste  any  part  of  it,  but — but  they  were  so  innocent, 
so  charming,  and  really  they  seemed  to  love  me " ;  and  P^re  Josef 
winked  and  coughed,  and  rubbed  his  nose  vigorously  with  his  coarse 
handkerchief. 

"I  '11  be  very  good  to  them ;  I  '11  take  good  care  of  them ;  and 
when  you  come  back  you  '11  have  them  again,"  said  Philip,  con- 
solingly. 

"  I  know  you  '11  be  kind  to  them.  They  're  very  affectionate,  and 
I  don't  think  they  will  forget  me.  When  I  return,  perhaps  I  will 
take  them  again — that  is,  if  I  am  not  too  fond  of  them.  However, 
Philip,  I  leave  them  with  you;    I   give  them  to  you  until  I  claim 


f 

il 
k 


""".■.(\:; :: 


70 


TOINETTES    PHILIP 


them.  Good-by,  my  dear  boy,"  and  he  held  out  his  thin  hand ;  "  be 
obedient  and  studious  while  1  am  gone,  and  don't— don't  nejrkct 
my  'children.'"  'Vnd  without  as  much  as  glancing  at  the  bundle  on 
the  table,  P^re  Josef  turned  away  and  walked  hurriedly  down  the 
path,  followed  closely  by  Toinette.  • 

So  busy  was  Philip  taking  the  covering  off  the  cage,  that  he  did 
not  notice  how  earnesdy  Toinette  and  the  priest  were  talking  as 
they  stopped  for  a  moment  near  the  gate.  With  his  hand  on  the 
latch,  Pere  Josef  was  saying:  "The  papers  will  be  safe  during  my 
absence.  I  leave  them  with  mine,  in  the  care  of  a  friend.  If  you 
need  them  before  I  return,  he  will  give  them  to  you";  and  he 
mentioned  a  name  and  address. 

Toinette  replied:  "  I  hope  I  shall  not  need  them,  and  that  when 
you  come  back  you  will  find  everything  as  it  is  now." 

"  I  trust  so,  my  good  Toinette.     We  are  in  the  hands  of  God. 
Au  revoir — not  adieu." 

As  Philip  looked  up  he  saw  the  black  figure  of  Pfere  Josef  vanish 
through  the  gate,  and  again  he  thought:  "  I  did  n't  ask  P^re  Josef, 
after  all ;  and  now  he  is  gone.  Well,  I  must  wait  until  he  comes 
back." 


his  thin  hand;  "be 
on't — don't  ncj^lect 
ing  at  the  bundle  on 
hurriedly  down  the 

the  cage,  that  he  ditl 
iest  were  talking  as 
th  his  hand  on  the 
be  safe  during  my 
of  a  friend.  If  you 
m  to  you";   and  he 

them,  and  that  when 

now." 

1  the  hands  of  God. 

of  P^re  Josef  vanish 
id  n't  ask  P^re  Josef, 
wait  until  he  comes 


Chapter  XII 


A   SLKI'KISE 


s 


lUSETTE,  do  you  know  it  is  papa's  birthday  ? "  said  Dea  one 
morning  to  the  old  woman  who  often  came  to  cook  and  do 
heavy  work  for  the  little  housekeeper. 

"  No,  Ma'mselle,  I  did  n't  know  it,  but  I  m  thankful  your  papa 
is  here  to  see  another  birthday-  and  so  much  better  than  he  was. 
Why,  he  's  like  another  man  !  " 

"  He  smiled  this  morning  when  I  wished  him  bon  iour"  said  Dea, 
her  own  serious  little  face  dinijiling  at  the  pleasant  thought;  "and 
it  s  the  first  time  for  so  long.  Yes,  he 's  better  and  happier,  and  I  want 
him  to  have  a  good  i/irthday  dinner.  I  want  you  to  go  to  market. 
He  must  have  some  soup  and  fish,  and  a  nice  little  chicken,  some 
peas,  and  a  salad  ;  and  I  am  going  to  surprise  him  with  some  fruit, 
because,  Susette,  we  are  almost  rich  now,  and  it  is  his  birthday." 

"Very  well,  Ma'mselle;  I  will  do  just  what  you  wish,"  returned 
the  old  woman,  with  pleased  alacrity. 

"  And,  Susette,  don't  say  anything  to  papa.  I  want  to  surprise 
him.  You  will  cook  the  dinner  nicely,  and  I  will  arrange  the  table. 
Philip  has  promised  me  sc  ne  flowers,  and  Seline  is  going  to  make 
me  a  birthday  cake ;  I  will  bring  them  when  I  come  from  monsieur's. 
Now  don't  disturb  papa,  because  he  is  very  busy ;  he  is  working  on 
an  order — he  is  making  a  medallion  of  monsieur's  little  boy,  who  is 
dead.  He  is  making  it  from  a  photograph,  and  it  is  such  a  pretty 
face.  Papa  is  so  interested  in  it.  When  it  is  finished,  I  am  to  take 
it  to  monsieur,  and  he  will  pay  a  great  deal  for  it.  Now  please  be 
very  quiet  and  careful,  Susette." 


'  r~ 


72 


TOINIiTTE  S    PHILIP 


••  I  will,  Ma'mselle,  I  will,"  replied  the  old  woman,  looiring  at  Dea 
doatingly;    "and  I  '11  do  the  marketing  as  cheap  as  1  can;   you[ 
won't  be  ashamed  of  your  papa's  birthday  dinner." 

'•  Pauv  papa,  it  's  s  long  since  he  had  a  birthday,  I  want  this  to! 
be  a  happy  one.  Now  I  'in  going  to  hurry  to  Rue  Royale ;  j.fiv'ji 
me  my  basket  ind  I  will  bring  the  flowers  and  cake." 

Within  a  lew  weeks  a  great  change  had  taken  place  in  the 
small  cottaj^e  on  Viller^  street.  To  the  poor  aiust  in  wax  a  little] 
success  meant  a  great  deal.  At  last  he  had  found  some  one  to  ap- 
preciate his  peculiar  talent,  and,  ill  and  suffering  though  he  was,  his 
beclouded  mind  gra'!.?.d  that  fact  and  held  to  it.  It  seemed  to  give 
him  new  life  and  ht  u;.  He  saw  before  him  the  means  <(  support 
for  himself  and  the  patient,  tender  little  creature  who  clung  to  him 
so  faithfully  in  all  his  trouble.  One  by  one  his  l?(.,iutiful  group.;  and 
figure:-  had  disappeared  from  his  dingy  room,  to  find  in  Mr.  Ains- 
worth's  studio  admirers  and  purchasers ;  and  the  careful,  mature 
child,  with  all  the  burden  of  life  on  her  slender  shoulders,  knew  how 
to  economize  the  generous  sums  she  received  for  them.  Therefore, 
it  was  no  wonder  that  when  Dea,  who  a  few  weeks  before  had  lacked  a 
nickel  to  buy  bread,  looked  at  the  little  pile  of  bank-notes  locked 
safely  in  her  father's  desk,  she  thought  that  she  was  rich,  and  could 
well  afford  a  birthday  dinner. 

They  had  not  always  been  so  poor.  Some  years  before,  when 
the  artist  in  wax  first  came  from  France,  he.  had  quite  a  handsome 
sum  of  money.  He  bought  the  small  cottage  in  Viller^  street,  and 
furnished  it  neatly  for  his  pretty  young  wife,  a  gentle,  industrious  girl, 
who  had  been  a  governess  in  a  rich  family,  and  who  eked  out  their 
small  income  by  giving  piano-lessons  to  the  little  Creoles  in  the 
neighborhood.  The  artist,  always  peculiar,  with  his  strange  worship 
for  the  great  French  writer,  quietly  studied  and  illustrated  the  books 
that  he  adored.      Sometimes  he  worked  with  his  pencil ;  but  oftener 


lan,  looking  at  Dca 
:ap  as  1  can  ;   you  j 

tf 

• 

Kday,  I  want  'his  to 
Rue  Royale;  ;^:ive 
ake." 

taken  place  in  the 
iijst  in  wax  a  little 
nd  some  one  to  ap- 
f  though  he  was,  his 
It  seemed  to  give 
le  means  </f  support 
•e  who  clung  to  him 
Ijt.iutiful  groups  and 
to  find  in  Mr.  Ains- 
the  careful,  mature 
shoulders,  knew  how 
r  them.  Therefore, 
s  before  had  lacked  a 
>f  bank-notes  locked 
was  rich,  and  could 

2  years  before,  when 

ad  quite  a  handsome 

in  Viller^  street,  and 

ntle,  industrious  girl, 

d  who  eked  out  their 

little  Creoles  in  the 

I  his  strange  worship 

illustrated  the  books 

is  pencil ;  but  oftener 


r 


CIHM/ICMH 

Microfiche 

Series. 


CIHIVI/ICIVIH 
Collection  de 
microfiches. 


Canadian  Instituta  for  Historical  IMicroraproductions  /  Institut  Canadian  da  microraproductions  historiquas 


"^''IW 


IW 


§ 


TOINETTE  S   PHILIP 


73 


with  the  plastic  medium  of  wax.  Now  and  then  he  sold  some  of  his 
small  figures,  and  occasionally  he  had  an  order  for  a  portrait  me- 
dallion ;  and  in  this  way  the  quiet  years  passed,  until  the  young  wife 
was  taken  away.  After  that  his  health  failed,  and  the  heavy  burden 
of  existence  fell  upon  the  frail  child,  who  was  bearing  it  so  bravely. 

When  Dea  reached  the  studio  in  Rue  Royale,  she  found  Philip 
already  there.  He  was  seated  at  a  table  beside  Mrs.  Ainsworth, 
with  a  plate  of  delicious  strawberries  before  him,  and  Mr.  Ainsworth 
was  working  very  busily  on  a  charming  little  study  he  was  making 
of  the  group. 

These  visits  to  the  studio  were  the  beginning  of  a  new  life  to  the 
boy,  and  every  day  the  charm  of  it  increased.  Mrs.  Ainsworth  had 
become  deeply  interested  in  him,  and  treated  him  with  the  greatest 
affection,  and  Mr.  Ainsworth  encouraged  the  intimacy,  when  he  saw 
his  wife  more  cheerful  and  in  better  health.  Every  day  he  planned 
to  keep  the  boy  with  them  as  much  as  possible.  After  making  a 
great  many  studies  of  the  little  models,  he  had  begun  teaching  Philip 
the  rudiments  of  drawing.  The  boy  had  brought  his  rude  sketches 
to  the  artist,  who  saw  in  them  evidences  of  talent,  and  as  Toinette 
was  anxious  to  have  him  learn,  Mr.  Ainsworth  found  it  a  pleasure  to 
teach  the  intelligent,  docile  little  fellow. 

Often,  when  the  artist  and  his  wife  were  alone,  they  seriously  dis- 
cussed the  future  of  the  child,  and  wondered  to  what  destiny  he  was 
born.  A  vague  wish  .was  in  the  heart  of  each  that  neither  liked  to 
be  the  first  to  express.  There  was  one  thing  of  which  they  were  cer- 
tain —  he  was  necessary  to  their  happiness  ;  the  days  were  brighter 
when  he  came,  and  sadder  when  he  remained  away.  They  were 
very  fond  of  Dea ;  but  she  had  not  grown  into  their  hearts  as  Philip 
had.  It  was  the  striking  resemblance  to  their  lost  boy  —  the  eyes,  the 
hair,  a  tone  in  his  voice,  in  his  laugh,  a  way  of  looking  at  them  — 
that  made  them  long  to  keep  him  always.     The  weather  was  very 


'■■■;   ''it 


r- 


74 


TOINETTE  S   PHILIP 


:-4 


warm,  and  often  they  spoke  of  going ;  but  day  after  day  they  lingered, 
fascinated  with  this  new  affection. 

When  Dea's  radiant  face  appeared  at  the  door,  Philip  left  his 
strawberries,  and  ran  joyfully  to  meet  her,  saying,  "  Here  are  the 
flowers  for  your  papa's  birthday.     Mammy  sent  them  to  you,  with 

lots  of  good  wishes." 

Dea  thanked  him  with  a  tremulous  smile,  as  she  took  the 
beautiful  roses  and  laid  them  carefully  in  her  basket.  Her  little 
heart  was  very  full,  and  she  could  not  say  much. 

"  Here  are  some  strawberries  for  you,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Ains- 
worth,' making  room  beside  her;  "they  were  so  tempting  to  Philip 
that  he  could  not  wait  until  you  came." 

*'  If  you  please.  Madam,  may  I  take  them  home  and  eat  them 
with  papa?     It  is  his  birthday." 

"  Certainly,  my  child,  if  you  would  rather,"  and  Mrs.  Ainsworth 
filled  a  little  basket,  and  placed  it  beside  the  flowers. 

"  Have  you  a  birthday  present  for  your  papa,  Dea?"  asked  Mr. 
Ainsworth,  who  was  watching  the  child's  varying  expression  of  de- 
light.    Her  care  for  her  father  was  half  pathetic  and  half  amusing. 

"No,  Monsieur,"  she  replied,  a  little  sadly;  "that  is,  I  have  n't 
much  beside  the  flowers  and  Seline's  cake.  I  wanted  to  get  the  book, 
but— but  it  was  twenty-five  francs,  and  I  could  not  pay  so  much." 

Mr.  Ainsworth  looked  at  his  wife  and  smiled.  "  Well,  my  dear, 
don't  be  unhappy.  Your  father  shall  have  the  book  ;  he  shall  have  it 
for  his  birthday.  It  is  a  present  from  you.  You  have  been  such  a 
patient  little  model  that  I  don't  feel  as  though  I  had  half  paid  you. 
I  give  you  this  to  make  it  up,"  and  he  handed  her  the  book,  neatly 
covered  with  paper  tied  with  a  narrow  ribbon. 

Dea  took  the  package  silently.  Her  sofdy  tinted  cheeks  turned 
quite  pale,  and  her  eyes  seemed  to  distend  with  surprise  and  delight. 
"  Oh,  oh  !  "  she  gasped  at  length,  "  how  glad  pauv'  papa  will  be  !    I 


l-r 


TOINETTES    PHILIP 


75 


er  day  they  lingered, 

door,  Philip  left  his 
ing,  "  Here  are  the 
It  them  to  you,  with 

ile,  as  she  took  the 
basket.     Her  little 

i 

ear,"  said  Mrs.  Ains- 

0  tempting  to  Philip 

home  and  eat  them 

and  Mrs.  Ainsworth 
wers. 

la,  Dea?"  asked  Mr. 
ng  expression  of  de- 
:  and  half  amusing. 

"  that  is,  I  have  n't 
mted  to  get  the  book, 

1  not  pay  so  much." 
ed.    "  Well,  my  dear, 
lOok  ;  he  shall  have  it 
^ou  have  been  si'ch  a 
I  I  had  half  paid  you. 

her  the  book,  neatly 

y  tinted  cheeks  turned 
li  surprise  and  delight. 
pauv'  papa  will  be  !    I 


can't  thank  you  now,  Monsieur,  I  can't  —  I  can't ! "  and  bursting  into 
sudden  tears  of  gratitude,  she  took  her  basket  and  hurried  away 
without  another  word. 

When  she  reached  home,  her  father  was  still  bending  over  his 
delicate  work,  quite  unmindful  of  everything,  birthdays  included. 
She  said  nothing  to  him.  She  was  pale  and  excited,  and  her  small 
face  wore  a  look  of  great  importance. 

"  Susette,"  she  cried  eagerly,  as  she  entered  the  kitchen,  "  how 
is  the  dinner  getting  on  ?  " 

"  Finely,  Ma'mselle,  finely ;  I  got  artichokes,  the  first  in  the  mar- 
ket, and  such  a  fat  chicken,  and  all  for  so  little ;  and  a  handful  of  meat 
scraps  for  Homo  for  lagnappe." 

"  And,  oh,  Susette,  I  have  strawberries  !  Madam  gave  me  straw- 
berries. What  wt//  papa  say  when  he  sees  it  all  ?  And  the  book ! 
the  book  ! " 

She  was  so  excited  that  her  fluttering  little  fingers  could  scarcely 
arrange  the  few  pieces  of  china  and  silver  —  the  remnants  of  their 
better  fortunes ;  but  at  last,  when  all  was  ready,  and  the  book  —  the 
much-coveted  book  —  was  laid  by  her  father's  plate,  with  the  fruit  and 
flowers  on  each  side  of  the  table,  and  Seline's  beautiful  cake  in  the 
center,  she  could  hardly  wait  for  the  dinner  to  be  served.  She  flitted 
constantly  back  and  forth  between  the  kitchen  and  the  little  dining- 
room,  discussing,  inspecting,  and  directing  everything  until  she  went 
to  lead  her  father  to  the  table. 

"  Papa,  do  you  know  that  it  is  your  birthday  to-day  ?  "  she  said,  joy- 
fully, as  she  smoothed  his  hair  and  arranged  his  carelessly  tied  cravat ; 
"and  I  want  you  to  look  very  nice,  because  I  have  a  surprise  —  a  real 
surprise  —  for  you." 

The  artist  laid  down  his  tools,  removed  his  glass,  and  arose  with 
dreamy  indifference.  "  My  birthday,  dear  child  ?  No,  I  had  not  thought 
of  it.   All  days  are  alike  to  me,  now." 


'I 


^'■1: 


n 


7^ 


TOINETTE  S   PHILIP 


"  You  won't  say  so,  Papa,  when  you  see  what  I  've  got  for  you. 
This  is  a  lovely  day,  a  happier  day  than  we  've  had  for  a  long  time." 
Then  she  threw  open  the  door  impressively,  and  proudly  seated 
her  father  at  the  pretty  table.  As  he  glanced  from  the  flowers  to  the 
fruit,  his  face  brightened  with  pleased  surprise,  and  he  said  cheerfully, 
in  a  tone  that  enchanted  Dea,  "  Why,  my  darling,  you  have  indeed  sur- 
prised me!  I  little  expected  such  a  feast."  Then  his  eyes  fell  on  the  book, 
which  he  seized  eagerly,  and  pulling  off  the  wrapper,  began  to  devour 
the  contents,  glancing  greedily  from  the  title-page  to  the  illustrations. 

"The  Hachette  edition,  Dea;  where  did  you  get  it?  Is  it  mine  — 
mine  to  keep?" 

"  Yes,  Papa,  it  is  yours.  Monsieur,  the  artist,  gave  it  to  me  for 
keeping  so  quiet  when  I  sat  for  him ;  and  I  give  it  to  you.  It  is  a 
birthday  present  from  me." 

"  You  are  a  good  child,  Dea,"  he  said,  his  eyes  fixed  on  one  of  the 
illustrations.    "This  is  excellent;  this  will  make  a  fine  group." 

"  But,  Papa  dear,  look  at  the  other  things.  Philip's  mammy  sent 
you  the  flowers.  Seline  made  the  cake  for  you,  and  madam  gave  me 
the  strawberries.     Are  n't  they  all  lovely  ?  "  ^ 

The  artist's  eyes  wandered  slowly  over  the  table.  "  Ves,  my  dear, 
they  are  beautiful,  and  your  friends  are  very  good  to  us;  but  the  book — 
the  Hachette  —  it  is  the  best  of  all." 

During  the  dinner  Dea  tried  by  every  art  to  attract  her  father's 
attention  from  his  book.  He  ate  slowly  of  the  good  things  set  before 
him,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  fascinating  pages.  He  was  happy  in 
his  own  way,  and  the  child  was  satisfied,  for  she  said  in  confidence  to 
Susette,  when  the  feast  was  over : 

"  Dear  Papa,  how  happy  he  was !  He  enjoyed  his  birthday  dinner  so 
much.  He  ate  every  thing  I  helped  him  to — strawberries  and  cake,  and 
everything.  And  fancy,  Susette,  he  was  looking  at  his  book  all  the  time ; 
but  the  best  part  of  all  was  the  surprise.  Oh,  Susette,  he  wasso  surprised ! " 


K 


lat  I  've  got  for  yon. 
had  for  a  long  time." 
I,  and  proudly  seated 
om  the  flowers  to  the 
nd  he  said  cheerfully, 
,  you  have  indeed  sur- 
s  eyes  fell  on  the  book, 
3per,  began  to  devour 
ge  to  the  illustrations. 
I  get  it?  Is  it  mine  — 

ist,  gave  it  to  me  for 
ve  it  to  you.     It  is  a 

es  fixed  on  one  of  the 
e  a  fine  group." 
Philip's  mammy  sent 
,  and  madam  gave  me 

table.  "  Ves,  my  dear, 
to  us;  but  the  book — 

to  attract  her  father's 
■ood  things  set  before 
is.  He  was  happy  in 
:  said  in  confidence  to 

his  birthday  dinner  so 
ivberries  and  cake,  and 
it  his  book  all  the  time ; 
e,  he  was  .r<7  surprised ! " 


Chapter  XIII 


PHILIP    SAYS   "NO 


THE  next  morning  after  Dea's  birthday  dinner,  Philip  sat  on  the 
gallery  amusing  himself  with  P^re  Josef's  "children."  Itwasquite 
early,  and  Toinette,  who  was  within,  attending  to  her  household 
duties,  thought  the  boy  was  studying.  His  books  and  slate  lay  on  the 
table  near  the  cage,  but  he  was  not  looking  at  them;  he  could  not  get 
interested  in  his  lessons  with  such  merry  little  rogues  scurrying  to  and 
fro  before  liim. 

"  I  must  n't  let  them  forget  what  P^re  Josef  taught  them,"  reasoned 
Philip ;  "  it  would  be  too  bad  if  they  could  n't  do  their  drill  when  he 
comes  home.  I  must  make  them  practise  a  little  every  morning." 
Therefore  he  vvas  putting  them  through  their  exercises  with  quite  an 
easy  consciencie. 

The  air  was  sweet  and  cool ;  the  sun  was  just  peeping  over  the 
pittosporums,  which  were  white  with  blossoms;  the  dew  lay  in  spark- 
ling drops  on  the  stars  of  the  jasmine,  and  every  little  blade  of  grass 
was  diamond-tipped ;  the  spiders'  webs,  stretched  across  the  rose- 
bushes, looked  like  spun  glass  as  they  waved  daintily  in  the  soft  wind. 
Philip's  bowl  of  hominy  and  milk  stood  beside  him;  the  Major  and  the 
Singer  had  come  to  share  it.  He  cared  no  more  for  his  food  than  he 
did  for  his  books;  he  was  intensely  interested  by  the  indications  of  a 
misunderstanding  between  his  pets.  The  birds  seemed  jealous  of 
P^re  Josef's  "children,"  and  fluttered  and  pecked  viciously  at  the  cage, 
whose  tiny  occupants  scurried  from  side  to  side  in  order  to  get  out  of 


77 


11 


I 


i;'i 


V 

1 
1* 


!  1 1 


hi 


l|!|ii: 


n 


ly 


78 


TOINETTE  S   PHILIP 


the  reach  of  their  unfriendly  bills.  At  last,  with  a  funny  little  show  of 
bravery,  the  mice  drew  themselves  up  in  battle  array,  and  presented  a 
bold  front  to  the  enemy. 

This  so  amused  Philip  that  he  burst  into  a  hearty  peal  of  laughter, 
which  brought  Toinette  to  the  gallery,  interested  in  spite  of  herself. 
"  Oh,  Mammy,"  he  cried,  "just  watch  them  for  a  minute  !  The  Major 
and  the  Singer  are  jealous." 

"And  the  'children'  are  frightened,"  said  Toinette.  "See  them 
flutter  and  tremble,  in  spite  of  their  brave  appearance."  As  she  spoke, 
she  took  a  handful  of  grain  from  a  box  and  scattered  it  on  the  grass 
for  the  unfriendly  birds.  "  Go  and  eat,"  she  said,  "and  don't  make 
the  poor  little  things  unhappy." 

The  "children"  stood  up,  gravely  watching  the  motions  of 
the  birds,  who  gave  a  last  threatening  peck  before  they  disappeared. 
When  they  were  finally  gone  the  little  sprites  began  to  dance 
merrily ;  they  imagined  they  had  routed  the  enemy  and  come  off 
victoriously.  • 

"  They  're  very  lively,"  said  Philip,  looking  at  them  admiringly. 
"  I  don't  believe  they  miss  P^re  Josef." 

"  No,  I  don't  think  they  do,"  returned  Toinette,  a  little  sadly. 
"  It 's  the  way  with  almost  everything  in  this  world :  '  out  of  sight, 
out  of  mind,' "  and  she  sighed  as  she  dropped  into  her  old  rocking- 
chair  and  leaned  her  head  against  the  faded  cushion.  "I  often 
think,  my  dear,  that  if  I  went  away  you  'd  forget  me  just  as  soon." 

"You  *re  not  going  away.  Mammy,"  replied  Philip,  cheerfully; 
"but  if  you  did,'  I  should  n't  forget  you;  I  could  n't  if  I  tried." 
Toinette  smiled  patiently.  "  You  would  n't  mean  to,  cher;  but 
after  awhile,  before  you  knew  it,  your  old  mammy  would  be  gone 
out  of  your  mind.  Some  one  else  would  take  her  place.  I  often 
study  about  these  strangers  from  the  North ;  they  're  a  great  deal 
to  you  already.     I  don't  blame  you,  my  child ;  they  're  very  good 


m 


TOINETTE  S    PHILIP 


79 


L  funny  little  show  of 
ray,  and  presented  a 

irty  peal  of  laughter, 
1  in  spite  of  herself, 
minute !    The  Major 

oinette.  "See  them 
ince."  As  she  spoke, 
:ered  it  on  the  grass 
id,  "and  don't  make 

ing  the  motions  of 
re  they  disappeared, 
es  began  to  dance 
nemy  and  come  off 

It  them  admiringly. 

nette,  a  little  sadly, 
orld:  'out  of  sight, 
nto  her  old  rocking- 

cushion.  "I  often 
et  me  just  as  soon." 
d  Philip,  cheerfully; 
:ould  n't  if  I  tried." 
t  mean  to,  cAer;  but 
nmy  would  be  gone 

her  place.  I  often 
they  're  a  great  deal 
;  they  're  very  good 


to  you ;  the  artist  teaches  you.     Sometimes  I  think  they  may  want 
to  take  you  away  from  me.     Would  you  go,  Philip  ?  " 

There  was  just  a  touch  of  jealousy  in  the  old  woman's  patient 
voice,  and  her  thin,  dark  face  was  full  of  anxiety  as  she  waited  for 
the  boy's  answer. 

It  came  directly,  clear  and  truthful.  "No,  Mammy,  of  course  I 
would  n't;  I  would  n't  leave  you  for  any  one.  I  'm  happy  here,  with 
my  birds  and  flowers  and  Pere  Josef's  '  children.'  I  could  n't  like  any 
other  place,  and  I  could  n't  love  any  one  as  I  love  you.  Mammy." 

Toinette's  dim  eyes  brightened  with  pleasure.  "  I  'm  glad  to 
hear  you  say  that,  Philip ;  I  've  had  you  a  long  time,  and  I  've  tried 
to  take  good  care  of  you,  and  to  teach  you  to  be  good.  There  's 
plenty  of  time  for  you  to  learn  everything.  I  could  n't  let  you  go 
away;  I  could  n't  give  you  up  just  yet,  but  I  'm  old  —  old,  and 
perhaps —  Well,  eat  your  breakfast,  child,  and  try  to  study  awhile 
before  you  go  to  the  studio." 

When  Philip  left  Toinette  with  an  affectionate  au  revoir,  he  did 
not  know  how  soon  again  his  loyalty  would  be  put  to  the  test.  Mr. 
Ainsworth  and  his  wife  were  talking  very  seriously  when  he  entered 
the  studio,  with  a  bright  face  and  a  cheerful  "  good  morning." 

"Come  here,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Ainsworth,  drawing  him 
gently  down  beside  her,  while  she  encircled  him  with  her  arm.  "  We 
want  to  talk  to  you.  We  are  thinking  of  going  away  soon,  and 
we  find  it  hard  to  leave  you,  my  dear  child.  Would  you  like 
to  go  with   us?" 

Philip's  cheeks  flushed  crimson,  and  his  eyes  filled  wirlr  tears. 
"  Oh,  I  don't  want  you  to  go !  I  don't  want  to  lose  you,  but  I  can't 
go  with  you." 

"  Why  can't  you,  my  dear  boy  ?  We  will  do  everything  for  you. 
We  will  make  you  very  happy,  and  you  can  go  on  with  your  draw- 
ing," said  Mr.  Ainsworth,  persuasively. 


8o 


TOINETTE  S    PHILIP 


"You  can  travel  and  see  other  places.  We  will  spend  the 
summer  in  the  mountains.  You  can  have  a  pony,  and  you  can 
go  out  sketching  with  Mr.  Ainsworth,"  urged  Mrs.  Aini>worth. 

"I  should  like  to  travel;  I  should  like  to  see  the  mountains— I 
never  saw  any ;  and  I  should  like  a  pony,"  replied  Philip,  lookin.<j 
up  bravely,  while  he  wiped  away  his  tears ;  "  but  I  can't  go.  I  can't 
leave  mammy, —  she  's  old,  and  I  ve  got  to  stay  with  her  and  take- 
care  of  her." 

"  If  your  mammy  should  consent  ?  If  she  should  think  it  best 
for  your  future  ?     If  she  should  be  willing  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Ainsworth. 

"  But  mammy  would  nt  be  willing,"  replied  Philip,  with  convic- 
tion ;  "  and  then  there  's  Dea ;  I  Ve  got  to  take  care  of  her,  and  I  've 
got  to  take  care  of  P^re  Josefs  'children.'  I  could  n't  leave  them," 
he  added  gravely,  as  the  weight  of  his  responsibilities  pressed  upon 

him. 

Mr.  Ainsworth  looked  to  his  wife  for  some  further  argament 
in  their  favor.  They  were  thrilled  with  admiration  for  the  loyil  little 
fellow,  and  yet  they  were  bitterly  disappointed. 

•'  But,  my  dear  boy,"  said  Mrs.  Ainsworth,  after  a  moment's 
silence,  "if  it  were  not  for  your  mammy,  would  you  go  with  us? 
Do  you  love  us  well  enough  to  go  with  us?"  Her  hungry  heart 
craved  some  assurance  of  thi  boy's  love. 

"If  it  was  n't  for  mammy,  yes,  I  'd  go,"  he  replied  readily.  "  I 
want  to  learn  to  paint  pictures,  and  I  'd  like  to  see  everything,  and 

and you  're  so  good  to  me.     I  don't  want  you  to  go  away," 

and  again  the  blue  eyes  filled  with  tears;  "but  you  see  I  can't— 
I  can't  leave  mammy." 

"I  see  you  can't,  my  dear,"  returned  Mrs.  Ainsworth,  sooth- 
ingly ;  "you  are  a  good,  loyal  boy,  and  we  love  you  all  the  better  for 
your  devotion  to  your  old  nurse.  There  is  a  great  deal  to  be 
thought  of  on  both  sides,  but  we  must  go  on  loving  you,  and  you 


r?! 


TOINIiTTE  S    PHILIP 


8l 


We  will  spend  the 
pony,  and  you  can 
Mrs.  Aini>worth. 
e  the  mountains — I 
(lied  Philip,  lookinij 
t  I  can't  go.  I  can't 
y  with  her  and  take 

should  think  it  best 
:ed  Mrs.  Ainsworth. 
Philip,  with  convic- 
:are  of  her,  and  I  've 
uld  n't  leave  them," 
Dilities  pressed  upon 


must  not  forget  us,  and  when  we  come  back  next  winter  we  want 
to  find  you  the  same  dear  boy  that  you  are  now." 

"  We  are  greatly  disappointed,  Philip,"  said  Mr.  Ainsworth,  re- 
jrretfully.  "We  are  sorry  to  go  without  you;  but  we  shall  watch 
over  your  future,  and  perhaps  when  we  return  we  can  make  some 
arrangement, — perhaps  there  will  not  be  so  many  obstacles  in  the 

way. 

"  If  mammy  and  Pere  Josef  should  say  I  could,  and  that  it  was 
best,  I  might  go  for  a  little  while,  but  I  can't  leave  mammy  now,  and 
anyway  I  must  be  here  when  P^re  Josef  comes  back." 

And  that  was  Philip's  ultimatum.  No  further  arguments  nor 
inducements  could  influence  him.  There  was  a  serious  and  secret 
reason  why  he  must  wait  for  P^re  Josef's  return. 


le  further  argjment 
on  for  the  loyil  litde 

1,  after   a   moment's 

lid  you  go  with  us? 

Her  hungry  heart 


replied  readily.  "  I 
»  see  everything,  and 
t  you  to  go  away," 
It  you  see  I  can't — 

•s.  Ainsworth,  sooth - 

you  all  the  better  for 

a  great  deal  to  be 

loving  you,  and  you 


'it. 


Chaptkr  XIV 

"I    'VE    COME    TO   STAY    WITH    YOU " 

PHILIP  had  not  been  to  the  studio  for  two  days,  and  Mrs.  Ains 
worth  was  very  unhappy  over  his  absence.     It  was  a  week  or 
more  after  the  conversation  related  in  the  last  chapter,  and 
they  had  finally  decided  to  leave  the  next  day. 

"  I  can't  think  what  has  kept  the  child  away,"  said  Mrs.  Ains- 
worth,  complainingly.  "He  knows  we  are  going  to-morrow,  and  he 
would  certainly  be  here  if  something  serious  had    not  happened. " 

"  I  will  go  to  Seline,"  said  Mr.  Ainsworth,  taking  his  hat.  "  If 
he  has  n't  been  there,  I  will  send  her  to  look  him  up."  And  as  he  spoke 
he  opened  the  door  to  go  out,  and  there  stood  Philip,  who  was  about 
to  enter.  At  first  Mr.  Ainsworth  did  not  notice  that  Lilybel  was 
hanging  back  in  the  shadow  of  the  door,  and  that  he  carried  a  bag 
and  a  large  basket ;  but  he  dt(/  notice  that  Philip  looked  very  pale, 
and  altogether  unlike  himself. 

As  soon  as  Mrs.  Ainsworth  heard  her  husband  exclaim,  "  Why, 
Philip !  I  was  just  going  to  see  what  had  become  of  you,"  she  came 
forward  joyfully,  but  started  back  surprised  when  she  saw  the  boy's 
face.  Then  she  noticed  that  he  was  dressed  in  black  and  that  around 
his  straw  hat  was  a  band  of  rusty  crape,  and  that  his  eyes,  when  he 
raised  them,  had  the  wide,  frightened  look  that  one  sometimes  sees 
in  a  lost,  helpless  animal.  He  seemed  much  older,  for  the  charming 
roundness  and  color  of  infancy  had  vanished,  and  his  cheeks  were 
pale  and  tear-stained;  a  few  days  of  weeping  and  fasting  had 
changed  him  greatly.  When  he  tried  to  speak,  his  lips  quivered,  and 
the  sobs  which  he  struggled  to  suppress  almost  choked  him.    In  one 


TOINETTES    I'HILIP 


«3 


.1. 


3U" 

days,  and  Mrs.  Aiiv 
e.     It  was  a  week  or 
)e  last  chapter,  and 

ay,"  said  Mrs,  Ains- 
g  to-morrow,  and  he 
had  not  happened." 
taking  his  hat.  "  If 
up."  And  as  he  spoke 
'hilip,  who  was  about 
Lice  that  Lilybel  was 
that  he  carried  a  bag 
lip  looked  very  pale, 

band  exclaim,  "Why, 
[Tie  of  you,"  she  came 
len  she  saw  the  boy's 
black  and  that  around 
lat  his  eyes,  when  he 
t  one  sometimes  sees 
Ider,  for  the  charming 
and  his  cheeks  were 
ing  and  fasting  had 
,  his  lips  quivered,  and 
t  choked  him.    In  one 


hand  he  carried  a  bundle  tied  up  in  a  red-and-yellow  silk  handker- 
chief; in  the  other,  one  of  Toinette's  white  wreaths,  with  the  purple 

motto,  A  ma  Mire. 

When  Philip  entered  the  room,  Lilybel  slipped  in  behind  him, 
and  putting  the  basket  on  the  floor,  he  placed  the  bag  beside  it. 
Then  he  flattened  himself  against  the  wall  and  stood  with  his  toes 
turned  in  and  his  arms  hanging  awkwardly,  while  he  twisted  his 
mouth  into  the  most  lugubrious  contortions  and   rolled  his  eyes 

mc;  urn  fully.  ^ 

Mrs.  Ainsworth  saw  nothing  but  Philip.  For  a  moment  she 
looked  at  him  pityingly ;  then  she  took  him  in  her  arms  and  drew 
him  close  to  her.  "  My  poor  child,  my  darling !  Tell  me  what  has 
happened,"  she  said  tenderly. 

Philip  wiped  his  eyes  and  swallowed  his  sobs  resolutely. 
<•  Mammy  is  dead,"  he  replied  brokenly,  "  and— and  I  've  come  to 
stay  with  you."  ^^    *» 

"  Your  mammy  is  dead !  Why,  how— when  did  it  happen  ? "  ex- 
claimed Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ainsworth  in  the  same  breath. 

"  It  was  in  the  night.     She  went  away  while  I  was  asleep.     She 
thought  /  might  go  and  leave  her,  but  now  she  's  gone  first  and  left 
me,"  said  Philip,  making  a  great  effort  to  control  his  grief,  and  try- 
ing to  tell  his  sad  little  story  calmly  and  clearly.     "  Mammy  always 
got  up  early,  and  when  she  did  n't  come  to  call  me.  I  went  to  her 
room,  and  she  was  lying  in  her  bed  asleep.     I  tried  to  wake  her  and 
I  could  n't,  so  I  ran  to  the  doctor's  on  the  next  block ;  he  came  back 
with  me,  and  he  said— he  said— dear  mammy  would  never  wake 
again.    She  had  just  gone  away  in  her  sleep,  and  she  never  told  me 
she  was  going— never  said  good-by  or  anything.     Then  I  went  for 
Seline.     I  knew  Seline  would  come,  because  P^re  Josef  was  away. 
P^re  Josef  was  a  good  friend  to  mammy ;  she  always  went  to  him 
when  she  was  in  trouble." 


I 


l! 


84 


TOINETTE  S    PHILIP 


"  My  dear,  dear  boy  !  Why  did  n't  you  come  to  us  ?  "  asked  Mrs. 
Ainsworth,  who  was  crying  in  spite  of  herself.  "  We  would  have 
done  everything  for  you." 

"  Well,  mammy  knew  Seline.  I  did  n't  think ;  I  ran  right  to  her, 
and  she  and  Lilybel  have  stayed  with  me  ever  since.  We  had  the 
funeral  yesterday,  out  at  S;.  Roch's — mammy  always  said  she 
wanted  to  be  buried  there.  It 's  awful  quiet  there.  She  had  money 
in  a  box  to  pay  for  everything, —  I  knew  all  about  it;  she  showed  it 
to  me  once  and  told  me  it  was  to  bury  her  with, — and  we  had  two 
carriages.  Pere  Martin  from  St.  Mary's  Church  went  in  one,  and 
Dea  and  I,  with  Seline  and  Lilybel,  went  in  the  other,  and — and  I 
cut  roses  enough  to  cover  her  grave,  because  dear  mammy  won't 
want  any  more  flowers,  she  won't  make  any  more  crowns  and 
harps ! "  and,  overcome  by  the  thought  that  these  were  the  last 
offices  for  the  departed,  he  hid  his  face  on  Mrs.  Ainsworth's  shoulder 
and  cried  passionately. 

At'  that  moment  there  came  a  low  growl  from  the  basket, 
followed  by  the  wail  of  a  -cat,  and  the  peeping  and  fluttering  of 
fowls. 

••  You  jes'  stop  dat  noise  in  dar ! "  cried  Lilybel,  sharply,  at  the 
same  time  giving  the  basket  an  energetic  kick,  which  served  only 
to  increase  the  tumult. 

Mrs.  Ainsworth  started  up  surprised.  "What  are  those?"  she 
asked,  looking  at  Philip's  humble  belongings. 

"  They  're  mine,"  said  Philip,  wiping  away  his  tears.  "  Lilybel 
brought  them.  The  puppy  and  the  kitten  and  six  little  chickens  are 
in  the  basket.  Mammy  raised  the  chickens, — the  hen  stole  her  nesl 
and  mammy  found  it;  she  thought  so  much  of  them  I  could  n'l 
leave  them.  These  are  P^re  Josef's  'children,'" — indicating  the 
bundle  in  the  red-and-yellow  handkerchief, — "and  this,"  glancing  al 
the  wreath,    "I  want  to  keep  always  to   remember  dear  mamm> 


iiiiaiiiiM'iiiii 


[P 


come  to  us  ?  "  asked  Mrs. 
rself.     "  We  would  have 

hink ;  I  ran  right  to  her, 
ever  since.  We  had  the 
lammy  always  said  she 
t  there.  She  had  money 
1  about  it ;  she  showed  it 

with, — and  we  had  two 
Z!hurch  went  in  one,  and 
in  the  other,  and — and  I 
ause  dear  mammy  won't 

any  more  crowns  and 
:hat  these  were  the  last 
^Irs.  Ainsworth's  shoulder 

growl  from  the  basket, 
;eping  and  fluttering  of 

i  Lilybel,  sharply,  at  the 
kick,  which  served  only 


What  are  those  ?  "  she 


TS. 


way  his  tears.  "  Lilybel 
and  six  little  chickens  are 
5, — the  hen  stole  her  nest 
Lich  of  them  I  could  n't 
lildren,' " — indicating  the 
— "and  this,"  glancing  at 
remember  dear  mammy 


I 


H'' 


m 


TOINETTE  S   PHILIP 


87 


by.     I  could  n't  leave  them,  so  I  brought  them  this  morning,  and 
I  've  got  to  take  them  all  with  me." 

Mr.  Ainsworth  smiled,  but  there  was  a  lump  in  his  throat  that 
was  difficult  to  swallow.  However,  he  said  gently:  "  Well,  my  dear 
boy,  we  will  see  presently  what  we  can  do  with  your  family  of  pets ; 
but,  first,  do  I  understand  that  you  have  made  up  your  mind  to  go 
with  us — that  you  have  really  decided  ? " 

"  Yes,  sir ;  I  mean  to  go.  You  know  I  said  I  'd  go  if  it  was  n't 
for  leaving  mammy,  but  now  she  's  left  me  and  there  's  nothing  to 
hinder ;  I  can't  live  there  without  her.  I  have  n't  any  other  home, 
and  P^re  Josef  is  gone.  I  will  go  with  you  and  stay  until  he  comes 
back ;  then  he  '11  tell  me  what  I  must  do.  Seline  has  locked  up 
everything.  There  's  nothing  there  now  to  miss  me  but  the  Major 
and  the  Singer,  and  I  guess  they  won't  forget  me.  I  guess  they  '11  be 
there  when  I  come  back.  Now,"  he  added,  with  a  business-like  air, 
and  quite  as  if  everything  were  settled,  "  if  you  '11  tell  me  where  I 
can  put  those  things  in  the  basket,  Lilybel  and  I  will  let  them  out ; 
and  there  are  my  clothes,"  pointing  out  the  bag;  "my  best  suit  is 
in  there,  but  I  sha'n't  wear  it  now,  because  I  'm  in  deep  mourning. 
Dea  put  this  crape  on  my  hat;  she  had  it  when  her  mama  died. 
Wasn't  she  good  to  think  of  it?" 

Mrs.  Ainsworth's  heart  was  deeply  touched  by  the  confidence  and 
simplicity  of  the  child;  she  could  only  clasp  him  to  her  and  cry  over 
him,  while  her  husband  turned  away  to  smile  and  wipe  off  a  tear  at 
the  same  time,  so  closely  united  in  Philip  were  the  ludicrous  and  the 

pathetic. 

The  artist  was  at  a  loss  to  know  how  to  dispose  of  the  contents 
of  the  basket  without  shaking  the  boy's  confidence,  or  wounding  his 
feelings.  It  was  a  matter  difficult  to  decide  upon  in  a  moment.  How- 
ever, he  gained  time  by  sending  Lilybel  down  to  the  court  with  the 
"  happy  family"  of  animals,  where  the  cobbler  and  his  wife  took  charge 


I 


88 


TOINETTES   PHILIP 


of  them  until  some  permanent  arrangement  could  be  made  for  their 
safety  and  comfort.  But  Pere  Josef's  "children"  had  come  to  stay. 
He  felt  that  it  would  be  useless  to  try  to  persuade  Philip  to  leave  them 
behind,  and  he  knew  that  the  little  cage  and  its  tiny  occupants  would 
have  to  travel  with  them  wherever  they  went. 


(I 


fi 


11 


d  be  made  for  their 

had  come  to  stay. 

^hilip  to  leave  them 

ny  occupants  would 


Chapter  XV 

THEY   VISIT    ST.  ROCH's  • 

MR.  AND  MRS.  AiNSWORTH  wcrc  again  obliged  to  delay  their 
departure  a  day  or  two,  in  order  to  make  some  new  arrange- 
ments, owing  to  this  sudden  addition  to  their  family.  In  the 
first  place,  Philip's  wardrobe  was  not  quite  suitable  for  a  fashionable 
resort  in  the  Adirondacks,  where  they  expected  to-spend  the  summer; 
and  then,  there  were  the  puppy,  the  kitten,  and  the  chickens  to  be 
disposed  of,  and  various  other  things  to  be  settled. 

They  loved  Philip  very  dearly,  and  enjoyed  his  presence  greatly; 
but  now  that  he  was  thrown  entirely  on  their  care  and  protection, 
they  were  somewhat  dismayed  at  the  responsibility.  ^ 

"  He  is  a  dear  boy,  and  I  am  so  happy  to  have  him,"  said  Mrs. 
Ainsworth;  "and  yet,  now  that  he  is  really  ours,  I  feel  some  mis- 
givings.'' 1  .11  •  11 

'•  Yes,  it 's  a  very  serious  matter  to  adopt  a  strange  child,  especially 
one  of  whose  parents  we  know  nothing,"  returned  Mr.  Ainsworth, 
thoughtfully.  "  I  wonder  what  mother  will  say.  I  'm  sure  she  won't 
approve  of  it.    You  know  what  strong  prejudices  she  has,  Laura.' 

"  But  if  it  is  a  pleasure  to  us,  she  surely  won't  object.  We  have 
had  sorrow  enough,  and  if  this  dear  boy  fills  our  empty  hearts  in  the 
least,  or  comforts  us  for  the  loss  of  our  darling,  she  ought  to  be  thank- 
ful In  any  case,  I  can't  see  that  we  are  obliged  to  consult  your 
mother,"  added  Mrs.  Ainsworth,  with  some  spirit.  "  We  are  the  ones 
to  decide  whether  it  is  best  or  not." 

"  Certainly,  my  dear,  it  is  entirely  our  affair.     It  seems  best,  it 

«9 


i'l 


itjii 
1|i 

:i]  ■ 
til- 

ill' 


■/- 


ill' 


90 


TOINETTE'S   PHILIP 


really  seems  best  both  for  us  and  the  child.    Poor  forlorn  little  fellow, 
his  confidence  in  us  is  touching,  and,  Laura  dear,  there  are  advan- 
tages in  his  having  no  kin;  we  don't  know  who  they  might  have  been. 
They  might  have  made  it  impossible  for  us  to  have  him.     Selinc, 
who  seems  to  have  been  somewhat  in  Toinette's  confidence,  says 
the  boy  is  an  orphan  without  doubt,  and  that  no  one  has  ever 
attempted  to  claim  him.     Of  course  there  is  a  history  and  a  mystery ; 
but  now  that  the  old  nurse  is  dead,  I  don't  see  any  way  to  find  out. 
If  there  had  been  a  possibility  of  having  him  while  she  lived,  I  should 
have  tried  to  get  the  secret  from  her,  although  Seline  says  she  was 
very  'close.'     As  it  is,  I  think  that  we  can  feel  that  he  is  entirely 
ours  because  he  belongs  to  no  one  else." 

"  And  I  am  sure  he  came  from  good  stock,  he  has  so  many  fine 
qualities.  He  is  so  truthful,  so  brave,  and  so  generous,  and  he  has  such 
a  plastic,  gentle  nature  that  we  can  mold  his  character  as  we  wish, 
and  make  his  deportment  perfection  in  a  short  time,"  said  Mrs.  Ains- 

worth,  hopefully. 

"  He  is  a  genuine  child  of  nature,"  returned  Mr.  Ainsworth.  "  I 
don't  know  how  an  artificial  atmosphere  will  affect  him.  I  don't  know 
how  he  will  develop,  away  from  his  simple,  natural  life,  hfs  flowers, 
his  birds,  his  blue  skies  and  soft  winds." 

"  Let  us  hope  for  the  best,"  said  Mrs.  Ainsworth,  encouragingly. 
••  If  he  does  us  no  further  good,  he  at  least  has  given  me  a  new 
interest  in  life,  and  that  is  worth  something." 

"  It  is  worth  everything,  my  dear.     It  means  life  and  hope  to  me 

as  well  as  to  you." 

The  next  morning,  after  Philip  had  brought  himself  and  his  be- 
longings to  Rue  Royale,  Dea  went  early  to  the  studio ;  but  the  boy 
had  already  gone  out,  and  Mrs.  Ainsworth,  who  was  there  alone, 
was  busily  engaged,  looking  over  a  package  of  boy's  clothing  which 
had  just  been  sent  in  for  her  inspection. 


it 


forlorn  little  fellow, 
ir,  there  are  advan- 
ey  might  have  been. 

have  him.  Selinc, 
e's  confidence,  says 
no  one  has  ever 
itory  and  a  mystery ; 
my  way  to  find  out. 
le  she  lived,  I  should 
Seline  says  she  was 

that  he  is  entirely 

he  has  so  many  fine 
rous,  and  he  has  such 
laracter  as  we  wish, 
me,"  said  Mrs.  Ains- 

Mr.  Ainsworth.  "  I 
ct  him.  I  don't  know 
ural  life,  hFs  flowers, 

orth,  encouragingly, 
as  given  me  a  new 

life  and  hope  to  me 

t  himself  and  his  be- 

studio ;  but  the  boy 

ho  was  there  alone, 

boy's  clothing  which 


TOINETTE  S    PHILIP 


91 


Dea  stood  beside  her  and  watched  her  with  great  interest,  as 
she  examined  garment  after  garment  —  such  fine  glossy  jackets  and 
trousers,  such  dainty  shirts  and  long,  soft  stockings,  and  shoes  and 
hats  that  were  marvels  of  perfection ! 

"  Are  these  all  for  Philip  ? "  asked  Dea,  in  her  soft  little  voice,  her 
eyes  full  of  surprise  and  pleasure. 

"  Yes,  my  dear ;  do  you  think  there  are  too  many  ?  "  said  Mrs. 
Ainsworth,  with  a  smile. 

"  There  are  a  great  many.  I  'm  glad  Philip  will  have  them ;  he 
will  look  so  nice.  I  hope  he  will  have  my  crape  on  his  new  hat. 
When  he  sees  it  he  will  think  of  me.  I  had  it  for  mama ;  I  would  n't 
have  given  it  to  any  one  else." 

Philip  had  gone  out  very  early,  and  Mrs.  Ainsworth  told  Dea 
that  he  had  asked  to  go  to  St.  Roch's  to  plant  some  flowers  from 
the  Detrava  place  on  Toinette's  grave. 

"  Well,  I  will  go  there  and  help  him.  I  often  go  there ;  my 
mama  is  buried  there,  and  Toinette's  grave  is  very  near  hers.  It  is 
so  peaceful  there ;  there  are  no  sounds — only  the  leaves  rustling, 
and  the  birds  that  sing  softly,  as  if  they  were  afraid  of  waking 
those  who  sleep  there.  I  will  go  right  away  and  help  Philip  plant 
the  flowers";  and  with  a  gentle  ''Au  revoir"  she  slipped  out  as 
quietly  as  she  had  entered. 

When  Dea  reached  the  pretty  little  cemetery,  she  stood  still  for 
a  moment  at  the  gate,  and  looked  sadly  and  thoughtfully  toward  the 
shady  corner  where  Philip  was  busily  planting  the  flowers,  and  care- 
fully pressing  the  fresh  earth  around  them.  They  were  Toinette's 
favorites — violets,  pansies,  and  the  slender  amaryllis.  He  had  placed 
a  sweet-olive  at  the  head  and  a  jasmine  at  the  foot.  "They  will 
bloom  first  in  the  spring,"  he  thought,  "and  she  loved  them  so." 

Near  was  another  carefully  tended  grave.  It  was  covered  with 
lilies  and  hedged  around  with  fragrant  white  roses.     At  the  head  of 


1 


s 


I 


\r- 


93 


TOINHTTE'S    PHILIP 


the  mound,  under  a  glass  shade,  was  an  exquisite  figure  in  white  wax. 
It  represented  the  angel  of  sorrow.  The  beautiful  head  was  bowed, 
and  the  white  lips  seemed  to  murmur  a  prayer.  Dea  thought  this  the 
most  beautiful  memorial  that  ever  was  placed  over  a  sleeping  saint. 


m 


,ll 


^f^6 


Mm 


PHILIP    AND    DEA    AT    TOINETTE'S    GRAVE. 


The  face  resembled  hers,  and,  as  she  stood  above  it  with  clasped 
hands,  she  too  seemed  like  an  angel  of  sorrow.  When  Philip 
looked  up  suddenly  and  saw  her  standing  there,  among  the  tangle 


\m 


TOINHTTE  S   PHILIP 


9S 


figure  in  white  wax. 
iful  head  was  bowed, 
Dea  thought  this  the 
ver  z  sleeping  saint. 


■'fi^'i 


fir 


VE. 


above  it  with  clasped 
Drrow.  When  Philip 
re,  among  the  tangle 


of  roses,  slim  and  pale,  with  soft,  downcast  eyes,  the  thought  of 
what  he  had  lost  and  what  he  was  about  to  lose  filled  his 
heart  with  sharp  pain,  and  for  a  moment  he  jj^ave  way  to  his  grief  in 
a  passionate  flood  of  tears,  kneeling  in  the  long  grass  and  covering 
his  face  with  his  earth-stained  hands. 

In  ■&  moment  Dea  was  kneeling  beside  him,  trying  to  comfort  hirn 
with  gentle  words  of  sympathy  and  love.  "Don't,  Philip,  don't  cry 
so ;  it  would  hurt  your  mammy  if  she  knew  it.  You  see  I  don't 
cry  over  mama's  grave.  Dear  mama !  she  sleeps  so  sweetly  there, 
and  papa's  beautiful  angel  always  watches  over  her  day  and  night." 

"  Oh,  Dea,  I  'm  going  away ;  I  'm  going  so  far,  and  there  won't 
be  any  one  to  take  care  of  mammy's  grave." 

"  Yes,  Philip,  there  will ;  I  will  take  care  of  it,  and  at  All  Sainj^' 
1  will  have  the  flowers  dug  and  the  grass  cut.  Seline  will  help  me ; 
we  will  do  it  together,  and  when  you  come  back  it  will  be  lovely 
here." 

"Oh,  Dea!  I  don't  want 'to  go;  I  can't  go,"  cried  Philip,  with 
sudden  regret. 

"  Yes,  you  must  go,  Philip ;  it  will  be  best.  Seline  says  so, 
and  monsieur  says  so ;  but  you  must  come  back  when  P^re  Josef 
returns.  Now,  you  have  planted  all  your  flowers,  come  into  the 
chapel  and  say  a  prayer.  I  will  ask  St.  Roch  to  bring  you  back 
soon,  and  if  you  don't  come  I  will  make  a  novena  for  you.  When 
papa  was  so  ill  I  made  one,  and  good  St.  Roch  cured  him." 

Together  the  two  children  entered  the  beautiful  little  ivy- 
covered  chapel,  and,  with  clasped  hands  and  reverent  mien,  knelt 
devoutly  at  the  shrine  before  the  youthful  figure  of  St.  Roch. 

He  was  Dea's  saint,  a  saint  above  all  others ;  the  beautiful  youth, 
with  his  faithful  dog  beside  him,  who  went  about  in  those  old  days  of 
famine  and  pestilence,  feeding  the  hungry  and  nursing  the  sick.  She 
devoutly  believed  that  he  had  cured  her  father,  and  she  also  believed 


•-i 


94 


TOINIiTTE  S    I'HILIP 


i! 


that  he  would  bring  Philip  back  safely,  if  she  prayed  sincerely.  So 
she  knelt  there,  her  head  uplifted,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  face  of  the 
youthful  saint,  while  her  lips  murmured  over  and  over  the  simple 
petition,  "  Good  St.  Roch,  hoar  us;  good  St.  Roch,  pray  for  us." 

And  as  she  prayed,  the  rosy  light  streamed  down  from  the 
stained  window  above  and  fell  over  her,  making  her  as  radiant  and 
beautiful  as  the  pictured  saint  before  her.  And  it  was  in  that  at- 
titude, and  with  that  sweet  light  over  her,  that  Philip  always  re- 
membered her. 


•ayed  sincerely.  So 
li  on  the  face  of  the 
ind  over  the  simple 
:h,  pray  for  us." 
ned  down  from  the 
r  her  as  radiant  and 
d  it  was  in  that  at- 
at  Philip  always  re- 


Chapter  XVI 


THE    DEPARTURE 


AT  last  they  were  ready  to  go.  Everything  was  arranged,  all 
/V  the  difficulties  overcome,  and  all  the  obstacles  surmounted. 
iV  Mr.  Ainsworth  found  it  very  easy  to  persuade  Philip  to  leave 
the  "  happy  family  "  with  Dea ;  and  Lilybel  was  employed  to  carry 
the  basket  to  its  destination,  where  Dea  received  it  joyfully  and  in- 
troduced its  lively  occupants  to  the  little  home  on  Viller^  street. 
This  proved  a  satisfactory  arrangement  on  both  sides.  Philip  was 
quite  willing  to  leave  these  objects  of  his  affection  with  Dea,  and  Dea 
was  delighted  :o  have  something  of  Philip's  to  care  for.  It  was  a 
bond  of  union  between  them,  and  she  was  sure  that  it  would  be 
a  happy  one,  providing  Homo  was  inclined  to  share  her  favor  with 
the  puppy  and  the  kitten. 

"  I  think  Homo  will  be  good  to  them,"  she  said  hopefully  to  Philip, 
"although  he  is  very  jealous  sometimes;  but  he  knows  they  are 
yours,  and  he  's  so  fond  of  you  that  I  'm  certain  he  '11  let  me  keep 

them." 

As  to  the  wardrobe,  Mrs.  Ainsworth  had  represented  to  the  boy, 
without  wounding  his  pride,  that  the  little  garments  he  had  always 
worn  would  be  too  thin  for  a  colder  climate,  and  that  he  would  outgrow 
them  before  he  returned,  so  he  had  better  give  them  to  Lilybel,  who 
would  look  very  well  in  the  best  suit.  This  Philip  readily  agreed  to; 
he  felt  that  he  owed  Seline  a  debt  of  gratitude  for  many  favors,  and 
in   spite   of  Lilybel's   unreliable  character,  he  secredy  liked  him. 


9$ 


\r- 


96 


TOINETTE  S   PHILIP 


I  II 


Therefore  the  bag  and  its  contents  were  transferred  to  the  droll  little 
darky,  who  carried  them  off  on  his  head  as  proudly  as  though  they 
had  been  the  spoils  of  a  conqueror. 

Now  they  sat  in  the  dismantled  studio  with  the  unsettled  air  of 
pilgrims  about  to  start  forth  on  a  new  venture.  Mr.  Ainsworth,  in  his 
traveling  outfit,  was  moving  about  restlessly.  Mrs.  Ainsworth  ap- 
peare'  dred  and  worried,  while  Philip,  in  his  handsome  new  clothes, 
did  not  seem  quite  as  much  at  his  ease,  nor  look  nearly  as  pictur- 
esque as  he  did  in  the  homely  garments  he  had  always  worn.  Dea 
was  there ;  she  had  been  with  them  all  day,  and  they  had  invited  her 
to  remain  and  go  with  them  in  the  carriage  to  the  station.  Now 
she  sat  beside  Philip,  very  quiet  and  pale ;  from  time  to  time  she 
looked  at  him  with  a  mingled  expression  of  admiration  and  dissatis- 
faction. He  did  not  seem  quite  the  same  boy  in  these  strange  new 
clothes ;  she  could  not  feel  so  intimate  with  him,  and  there  was  a 
little  formality  in  her  manner  toward  him,  although  her  heart  was  very 
heavy  at  the  thought  of  his  going.  Philip,  now  that  the  time  had 
actually  come  to  start  on  his  first  journey,  was  eager  to  be  off.  He 
was  pale  and  excited ;  suddenly  the  tears  would  start  to  his  eyes,  but 
he  would  wipe  them  off  bravely,  while  he  appeared  to  busy  himself 
with  P^re  Josef's  "children,"  who,  in  their  outdoor  costume,  the  red- 
and-yellow  handkerchief,  were  quite  as  impatient  as  Philip,  if  one 
could  judge  from  the  flurry  and  scurry  going  on  within  the  cage 
"They  are  very  lively,"  said  Philip,  peeping  in  at  them;  "they  art 
playing  Colin- Maillard." 

Dea  smiled  a  little,  but  said  nothing.  She  was  wondering  hov 
they  could  be  so  happy  at  such  a  time ;  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ainswortl 
were  thinking  that  the  "children "  were  likely  to  be  something  of  '<. 
nuisance  on  the  journey. 

At  last  the  carriage  was  announced,  much  to  the  relief  of  all 
and  they  started  at  once  for  the  station.    When  they  arrived  there  an< 


r 


I 


TOINETTE  S   PHILIP 


97 


»sferred  to  the  droll  little 
proudly  as  though  they 

ivith  the  unsettled  air  of 
e.  Mr.  Ainsworth,  in  his 
ly.  Mrs.  Ainsworth  ap- 
s  handsome  new  clothes, 
>r  look  nearly  as  pictur- 

had  always  worn.  Dea 
and  they  had  invited  her 
ge  to  the  station.  Now 
;  from  time  to  time  she 

admiration  and  dissatis- 
boy  in  these  strange  new 
th  him,  and  there  was  a 
hough  her  heart  was  very 
),  now  that  the  time  had 
was  eager  to  be  off.  He 
ould  start  to  his  eyes,  but 
ippeared  to  busy  himself 
Dutdoor  costume,  the  red- 
ipatient  as  Philip,  if  one 
oing  on  within  the  cage, 
g  in  at  them ;  "  they  are 

She  was  wondering  how 
1  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ainsworth 
Icely  to  be  something  of  a 

much  to  the  relief  of  all, 
hen  they  arrived  there  and 


stepped  out  on  the  platform,  the  first  persons  they  saw  were  Grande 
Seline  and  Lilybel,  anxiously  awaiting  them. 

Seline's  good,  dusky  face  was  full  of  trouble,  and  her  eyes  were 
suspiciously  red.  Lilybel,  in  Philip's  best  suit,  was  grinning  and 
rolling  his  eyes  extravagantly,  while  he  balanced  on  his  head  a  large 
paper  box. 

The  moment  Seline  saw  Philip,  she  hurried  to  him,  and  took 
him,  new  suit,  P^re  Josef's  "children"  and  all,  in  a  broad  embrace. 
"  My,  my  !  "  she  sobbed,  "  an'  yer  really  is  goin*  erway,  an'  so  hansum 
in  yer  new  mournin'!  My,  my,  chile!  How  yer  spects  Ma'mselle 
Dea  an'  me  's  goin'  ter  live  when  yer  done  gone  ? " 

"  But  I  '11  be  back  soon,  Seline,"  said  Philip,  bravely,  as  he  disen- 
gaged himself  from  the  old  woman's  clasp  and  wiped  her  tears  off 
his  face;  "  I  '11  be  back  soon — won't  I?"  and  he  looked  appealing- 
ly  at  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ainsworth.  They  nodded  an  affirmative,  and 
smiled  assuringly.     "  Next  winter,  if  nothing  happens,"  they  said. 

"  An',  chile,"  continued  Seline,  somewhat  comforted  by  this  promise, 
'I  's  done  made  yer  a  fine  loaf  of  cake  ter  take  along,  'cause  I  don't 
know  as  yer  '11  get  cake  whar  yer  goin',  an'  I  's  put  somd  fried 
chicken  in  der  box,  an'  a  bag  full  er  pralines." 

"  Oh,  thank  you,  Seline,"  said  Philip ;  he  was  not  ungrateful  for 
such  tangible  proofs  of  good-will. 

"  Here,  Lilybel,  jes'  let  dat  gentleman" — indicating  the  porter  — 
"put  dat  box  in  Mars'  Philip's  seat ;  an'  M'sieur,"  turning  to  Mr.  Ains- 
worth, "  I  hope  you  an'  your  madam  '11  take  a  bite  of  dat  cake  an' 
chicken." 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ainsworth  thank«d  Seline  heartily,  and  wished 
her  a  kind  good-by ;  then  they  drew  Dea  to  them  and  kissed  her 
tenderly.  "Don't  forget  us,  my  child;  we  will  bring  Philip  back 
soon,"  they  whispered. 

The  last  moment  had  come.     It  was  time  for  the  train  to  start, 


Ir- 


|!FI! 


11  i  i 


lil     i 


98 


TOINETTE  S   PHILIP 


and  the  last  good-bys  must  be  said.  Philip  took  Dea's  little  hand 
with  a  tremulous  smile  and  a  dry  sob ;  he  would  not  cry  then  ;  tears 
would  come  later.  "  I  must  get  on  the  train  now,  Dea ;  but  stand 
right  here  where  I  can  see  you,  and  don't  cry  when  I  'm  gone.  I  'm 
sure  to  come  back  soon."  He  spoke  hurriedly  and  hopefully.  "  I  've 
got  to  come  back  to  bring  Pfere  Josef's  'children.'  Good-by, 
Dea."  Then  he  kissed  her  tremulously.  "Good-by.  Good-by, 
Seline.  Good-by,  Lilybel."  And  without  looking  back,  pale  and 
excited,  he  followed  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ainsworth  into  the  waiting  car. 

Seline  put  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes  and  sobbed,  Dea  hid  her 
face  in  her  hands,  and  Lilybel  sniffed  and  wiped  his  eyes  on  the 
corner  of  Seline's  apron,  and  that  was  the  tableau  Philip  saw  as 
the  train  rolled  out  of  the  station. 

When  it  was  nearly  gone  from  sight,  Dea  looked  up.  She  was 
very  pale  and  her  eyes  were  quite  dry,  but  her  small  face  was  full  of 
sorrow.  At  that  moment  she  caught  a  glimpse  of  Philip ;  he  was 
leaning  bareheaded  from  the  window  of  the  car.  Mrs.  Ainsworth's 
arm  was  around  him,  the  wind  blew  the  curls  away  from  his  forehead, 
he  smiled  and  waved  his  hand.  Then  his  beautiful  boyish  face 
became  an  indistinct  blot ;  and  so  Toinette's  Philip  went  away  from 
Dea's  sight  out  into  the  wide,  wide  world. 


ook  Dea's  little  hand 
id  not  cry  then  ;  tears 
now,  Dea ;  but  stand 
/hen  I  'm  gone.  I  'm 
and  hopefully.  "  I  've 
children.'  Good-by, 
Good-by.  Good-by, 
)king  back,  pale  and 
ito  the  waiting  car. 
d  sobbed,  Dea  hid  her 
ped  his  eyes  on  the 
ableau  Philip  saw  as 

looked  up.  She  was 
small  face  was  full  of 
3se  of  Philip ;  he  was 
ir.  Mrs.  Ainsworth's 
vay  from  his  forehead, 
beautiful  boyish  face 
•hilip  went  away  from 


Chapter  XVII 


A    LITTLE    HEIRESS 


TWO  elderly  ladies  sat  in  a  handsome  drawing-room  of  a  fine 
house  on  Madison  Avenue  in  the  city  of  New  York.  They 
were  each  not  far  from  seventy,  but,  owing  to  their  rich  and 
fashionable  attire,  they  did  not  look  their  years.  One  was  Mrs. 
Ainsworth,  the  mother  of  the  artist,  the  other  a  friend  who  had  just 
returned  from  a  long  residence  abroad. 

Mrs.  Ainsworth,  or  Madam  Ainsworth  as  she  was  always  called, 
because  of  her  having  lived  a  great  part  of  her  life  in  France,  was  a 
handsome  old  lady,  tall,  stately,  and  somewhat  severe,  with  an  in- 
flexible expression,  and  clear  steel-blue  eyes,  which  seemed  to  pierce 
one  like  gimlets  when  she  looked  at  one  with  disfavor.  She  was 
left,  when  quite  young,  a  widow  with  a  large  fortune,  and  three  chil- 
dren. Philip,  the  elder  and  favorite  son,  was  among  the  first  to  enlist 
at  the  breaking  out  of  the  civil  war,  and  went  to  the  front  at  twenty- 
*  five  a  captain  in  his  regiment,  but  never  returned  from  the  scene  of 
the  conflict ;  Edward,  the  artist ;  and  Mary,  Mrs.  Van  Norcom,  who 
was  now,  like  her  mother,  a  rich  widow,  but  with  only  one  child,  a 
daughter,  a  little  heiress  to  a  large  fortune  in  her  own  right. 

The  old  ladies  were  talking  very  rapidly  and  very  earnesdy ;  they 
had  not  met  for  years,  yet  they  had  been  friends  since  their  school- 
days, and  their  conversation  was  a  jangle  of  reminiscences,  histories  of 
family  affairs,  and  the  current  events  of  the  day. 

"  And  so  Mary  has  gone  to  Nice  for  the  winter,  and  left  the  litrie 
heiress  with  you,"  said  the  friend. 


99 


0r 


V- 


lOO 


TOINETTE's    PHILIP 


mi 


"  Yes,"  said  Madam  Ainsworth,  with  a  sigh.  "  Poor  Mary  is  a 
confirmed  invalid ;  the  doctor  said  she  must  go,  and  we  could  n't  ex- 
pose Lucille  to  the  dangers  of  a  sea  voyage  and  a  change-  of  climate. 
You  can't  think  what  a  responsibility  she  is ;  she  is  such  a  frail  child, 
and  just  think  of  all  that  money,  if  anything  should  happen  to  her." 

"  It  goes  to  some  charitable  institution  if  she  should  not  live  to  be 
twenty-one,  does  it  not  ?  "  asked  the  visitor. 

"  Yes,  that  was  John  Van  Norcom's  strange  will.  Of  course  he  left 
Mary  well  provided  for,  but  we  should  not  like  all  that  money  to  go 
out  of  the  family,  especially  when  a  part  of  it  was  originally  our 
money.  You  know,  after  dear  Philip's  death  "—here  Madam  Ains- 
worth sighed  more  heavily,  as  she  glanced  at  a  beautiful  portrait  on 
the  wall  of  a  young  man  in  an  officer's  uniform — "  I  divided  what 
would  have  been  his  between  Edward  and  Mary.  John  Van  Norcom 
and  Philip  were  like  brothers,  and  I  felt  that  Philip  would  want  John 
to  have  the  control  of  his  part.  And  John  managed  it  well ;  he  made 
a  great  fortune  by  clever  investments,  and  that  railroad  doubled  it." 

"  I  hear  Edward  has  really  setded  down  to  an  artist's  life,"  re- 
marked the  friend. 

"  Yes.  Poor  Edward,"  her  voice  was  quite  doleful,  "  Ae  never  had 
any  faculty  for  making  money,  but  an  excellent  one  for  spending  it; 
and  Laura  is  a  little— just  a  little— unconventional,"  she  hesitated 
slightly  for  the  right  word ;  "sAe  likes  their  wandering  life.  I  'm  not 
surprised  at  Aer,  but  Edward— where  does  Ae  get  the  Bohemian  taint?" 

"  Oh,  one  does  not  necessarily  inherit  these  tastes ;  they  can  be 
cultivated,"  replied  the  friend.  "  I  suppose  the  loss  of  their  son 
has  unsettled  them." 

"  Yes,  it  has  unsettled  their  judgment.  What  do  you  think  they 
have  done,  and  without  consulting  me  ?  " 

"Really,  I  can't  say.  What  have  they  done?"  asked  the  friend, 
leaning  forward  eagerly. 


TOINETTE  S   PHILIP 


lOI 


\i.  "  Poor  Mary  is  a 
,  and  we  could  n't  ex- 
i  a  chang:j  of  climate, 
le  is  such  a  frail  child, 
)uld  happen  to  her." 
;  should  not  live  to  be 

n\\.  Of  course  he  left 
all  that  money  to  go 
it  was  originally  our 
—here  Madam  Ains- 

beautiful  portrait  on 
m — "I  divided  what 
\  John  Van  Norcom 
lilip  would  want  John 
ged  it  well ;  he  made 

railroad  doubled  it." 
)  an  artist's  life,"  re- 

aleful,  "  Ae  never  had 
one  for  spending  it ; 
ional,"  she  hesitated 
idering  life.  I  'm  not 
the  Bohemian  taint?" 
;  tastes ;  they  can  be 
he  loss  of  their  son 

at  do  you  think  they 

?  "  asked  the  friend, 


«♦  Why,  my  dear,  they  have  adopted  a  boy,  and  a  little  waif  at  that. 
An  orphan  of  whose  parents  they  know  nothing ;  as  nearly  as  I  can 
find  out.  he  was  a  litde  street-gamin.     Edward  sent  me  a  sketch  of 
him,  barefooted,  selling  flowers." 
"  Where  did  they  find  him  ?  " 

"  Oh,"  with  a  very  bitter  sigh,  "  in  the  South— of  all  places.  It  is 
like  opening  an  old  wound,  and,  strange  to  say,  the  boy's  name  is 
Philip.  I  think  the  name  interested  them  in  the  first  place,  and  now 
Laura  is  really  daft  over  the  child ;  she  is  quite  foolish  about  him. 
Says  he  is  the  image  of  my  grandson,  who  was  singularly  like  my 
poor  Philip ;  that  he  is  charming,  handsome,  refined,  and  all  that.  I 
think  she  exaggerates  a  litrie ;  it  is  not  likely  that  a  child  of  that 
class  could  resemble  one  of  our  family." 
"  Impossible !  "  said  the  friend  gravely. 

"  And  the  worst  part  of  it  is  that  they  will  spend  the  winter  with 
me.  You  know  they  have  had  my  house  while  I  was  away,  and  I 
can't  refuse  them,  as  there  is  plenty  of  room  for  us  all.  In  fact,  I 
think  they  imagine  it  is  their  home,  they  have  lived  here  so  much. 
They  have  been  in  the  mountains  all  the  autumn,  and  now  they 

write I  had  just  read  the  letter  when  you  came  in— that  they  will 

be  here  this  evening  with  that  boy ;  and  Lucille  here  for  the  winter. 
What  am  I  to  do  ?  I  really  don't  want  her  to  have  a  rough,  common 
boy  for  a  companion.  Mary  would  n't  like  it.  It  is  very  annoying. 
However,  I  must  make  the  best  of  it.  I  must  keep  Lucille  away 
from  him,  and  I  don't  think  it  will  be  difficult;  she  is  a  born  aristocrat, 
and  so  discriminating  for  a  child  of  her  age.  Mary  has  brought  her  up 
so  well,  and  her  governess,  Mademoiselle  d'Alby,  is  the  grand-daugh- 
ter of  a  count  and  so  elegant ;  and  her  maid  is  the  orphan  of  a  poor 
clergyman  and  really  a  lady.  The  little  heiress  is  surrounded  with 
the  best.  We  will  not  have  any  common,  ignorant  people  about  her. 
She  is  so  delicate  and  sensitive  she  can't  be  too  carefully  shielded." 


/^ 


I02 


TOINETTES   PHILIP 


1' 

sm,  It  I 


1 1 


ii' 


"  I   should  like   to  see  her,"  murmured  the  friend,  quite  awe- 
stricken.     "She  must  be  like  a  little  princess." 

"  She  is  out  taking  her  airing.     I  wish  you  would  stay  until  she] 
returns  ;  she  is  really  worth  seeing." 

At  that  moment  the  door  was  thrown  open  by  a  very  dignified  I 
servant  in  a  neat  livery,  and  quite  a  striking  group  entered.  First, ' 
a  little  girl  of  about  eight  years  dressed  in  a  rich  gray  velvet  coat 
trimmed  with  silver-gray  fox  fur,  a  broad  hat  covered  with  feathers, 
silk  stockings  and  patent-leather  shoes.  In  one  hand,  covered  with 
a  white  chamois-leather  glove,  she  held  a  small  muff  on  which  was 
fastened  a  large  bunch  of  lilies-of- the- valley,  tied  with  a  broad  blue 
ribbon.  She  was  thin,  fair,  and  slightly  freckled,  her  mouth  was 
wide,  her  nose  tip- tilted,  her  eyes  small  and  light;  but  her  hair  was 
beautiful — it  was  a  dark  auburn,  and  hung  like  waves  of  molten 
copper  over  her  velvet  coat.  Behind  her  walked  a  stately,  middle- 
aged  lady  dressed  in  rich  black  covered  profusely  with  jet,  and 
bringing  up  the  rear,  a  sweet-faced,  refined  looking  girl  in  the  white 
apron  and  neat  cap  of  a  maid.  On  her  arm  she  carried  innumerable 
wraps  of  fur  and  cashmere,  and  by  a  broad  blue  ribbon  she  led  a 
small  French  poodle,  as  white  and  soft  as  new  fallen  snow;  he  wore 
an  embroidered  blanket,  and  amid  the  silken  hair  around  his  neck 
sparkled  a  gold  collar  set  with  brilliants,  and  under  his  chin,  tied 
with  an  immense  bow  of  ribbon,  was  a  large  bunch  of  lilies-of-the- 
valley.  The  pretty  creature  was  obliged  to  hold  his  head  well  up 
when  he  walked,  which  gave  him  a  ridiculously  haughty  appearance, 
while  his  fastidious  little  black  nose  sniffed  the  air  disdainfully. 

When  Madam  Ainsworth  saw  the  child,  she  went,  with  the 
greatest  solicitude,  to  meet  her.  One  would  have  thought  a  little 
princess  was  making  her  entree,  there  was  so  much  ceremony. 

"  Why,  my  dear,"  said  the  old  lady,  taking  the  child's  small  hand 
between  both  of  hers,  "  you  are  back  earlier  than  usual.     Did  n't 


le  friend,  quite  awe- 
it 

i. 

I  would  stay  until  she! 

:n  by  a  very  dignified 
roup  entered.     First, ' 
rich  gray  velvet  coat 
:overed  with  feathers, 
le  hand,  covered  with 

II  muff  on  which  was 
led  with  a  broad  blue 
kled,  her  mouth  was 
jht;  but  her  hair  was 
ike  waves  of  molten 
:ed  a  stately,  middle- 
jfusely  with  jet,  and 
king  girl  in  the  white 
e  carried  innumerable 
Aue  ribbon  she  led  a 
'  fallen  snow;  he  wore 

hair  around  his  neck 
I  under  his  chin,  tied 
bunch  of  lilies-of-the- 
lold  his  head  well  up 
'  haughty  appearance, 
air  disdainfully. 
,  she  went,  with  the 
have  thought  a  little 
0  much  ceremony, 
the  child's  small  hand 
than  usual.     Did  n't 


:-1l« 


l!?!-:  I 


Jill 


TOINETTES    PHILIP 


105 


you  enjoy  your  drive?  Were  you  cold?  Was  'Fluff'  troublesome? 
I  hope  Mademoiselle  and  Helen  kept  plenty  of  wraps  around  you." 
Then  she  added,  as  she  led  her  across  the  room,  "Here  is  'a  dear  old 
friend;  will  you  come  and  speak  to  her  a  moment  before  you  go 
upstairs?" 

The  child  smiled  coldly  and  reached  out  a  gloved  hand.  "  I  am 
very  happy  to  see  you,"  she  said,  in  a  clear,  high-pitched  voice,  and 
with  the  composure  of  a  leader  of  society.  "  I  think  I  have  heard 
grandmama  speak  of  you;  you  have  just  returned  from  abroad, 
have  you  not?" 

"Shall  I  remain  until  mademoiselle  goes  to  her  apartment?" 
asked  the  governess. 

"Does  mademoiselle  wish  Fluff  to  stay  with  her?"  asked  the 

maid. 

"  You  may  all  go.  I  will  come  presently,"  replied  the  little  heiress, 
with  a  haughty  turn  of  her  head ;  "  and  Helen,  take  Fluff's  coat  off, 
and  give  him  a  small — a  very  small  piece  of  biscuit,  and  just  one 
caramel."  Then  she  turned  again  to  the  visitor  and  began  a  con- 
versation upon  the  topics  of  the  day  with  the  intelligence  and 
dignity  of  a  grown  woman. 

When  she  considered  that  she  had  discharged  her  duty  with 
propriety  toward  her  grandmama's  friend,  she  said  a  formal  good 
morning,  and  walked  haughtily  from  the  room. 

Both  old  ladies  watched  her  admiringly?  then  Madam  Ainsworth 
said,  "  Am  I  not  right  ?  is  she  not  a  rare  little  creature  ?  " 

"  She 's  remarkable,  she  's  charming! "  replied  the  friend,  warmly. 
"  Such  intelligence,  so  gracious,  so  lovely !  Dear,  dear,  what  a 
sensation  she  will  make  some  day!"    _ 


o     0 


'r- 


Chapter  XVIII 


A    IJTTI.K    WAIF 


MR.  AND  MRS.  AiNswoRTii  arrived,  bag  and  baggage, —  Philip 
and  P^re  Josef's  "children"  included, — an  hour  before  din 
ner,  and  went  directly  to  their  rooms  on  the  third  floor. 
Madam  Ainsworth  had  taken  the  apartments  usually  occupied  by  her 
son  and  his  wife  for  the  use  of  the  little  heiress  and  her  attendants. 
This  innovation  did  not  please  Mrs.  Ainsworth,  and  she  sighed  dis- 
contentedly as  she  mounted  the  extra  flight ;  and  when  she  saw  the 
small  room — little  more  than  a  closet — which  had  been  carelessly 
prepared  for  Philip,  she  looked  indignantly  at  her  husband  and  said, 
in  a  low  voice,  "  This  shows  plainly  how  we  shall  be  received  ;  I  wish 
we  had  gone  to  a  hotel." 

"  My  dear  Laura,  mother  would  never  have  forgiven  us  had  we 
done  so.  Let  us  make  the  best  of  it,  and  not  resent  her  unkindness. 
Philip  will  be  very  comfortable  here,  and  I  like  our  rooms  as  well  as 
the  lower  ones." 

Mrs.  Ainsworth  did  not  so  much  object  to  the  change,  only  that 
she  saw  in  it  an  indication  that  made  her  anxious  and  unhappy. 

•'  I  dread  your  mother's  seeing  Philip,"  she  said,  when  they  were 
ready  for  dinner ;  •'  if  she  treats  the  poor  child  coldly  and  severely  he 
will  feel  it,  for  I  have  found  out  that  he  has  a  very  sensitive  nature. 
Have  you  noticed  how  he  shrinks  from  everything  harsh  and  un- 
pleasant?" 

"Don't  borrow  trouble,  my  dear,"  replied  Mr.  Ainsworth,  sooth- 
ingly ;   "let  the  boy  make  his  own  way  with  her,  he  is  so  handsome 


io6 


TOINETTES    PHILIP 


107 


ind  baggage, —  Philip 
— an  hour  before  din 
IS  on  the  third  floor, 
sually  occupied  by  her 
5s  and  her  attendants, 
h,  and  she  sighed  dis- 
and  when  she  saw  the 
:h  had  been  carelessly 
her  husband  and  said, 
all  be  received ;  I  wish 

'e  forgiven  us  had  we 
resent  her  unkindness. 
e  our  rooms  as  well  as 

►  the  change,  only  that 
>us  and  unhappy. 

said,  when  they  were 
coldly  and  severely  he 

very  sensitive  nature, 
^thing  harsh  and  un- 

Mr.  Ainsworth,  sooth- 
ler,  he  is  so  handsome 


and  winning,  and  then,  perhaps,  she  will  see,  as  I  do,  his  likeness  to 
my  brother  when  he  was  a  child.  Why,  often  this  summer  when 
I'iiilip  has  been  with  m  in  the  fields  and  woods  I  have  fancied  my- 
self a  boy  again,  so  vividly  has  he  brought  back  the  memory  of  our 
happy  childhood.  If  mother  can  only  see  him  as  I  do,  his  future  is  safe. 
You  know  Philip  was  her  idol ;  to  her  he  was  simply  perfection,  but 
1 — /was  always  faulty."  And  Mr.  Ainsworth  sighed  a  little  sadly  at 
the  memory  of  past  injustices  which  he  had  forgiven,  but  not  forgotten. 

Madam  Ainsworth,  in  one  of  her  richest  gowns,  and  an  unusual 
(juantity  of  jewelry,  was  walking  impatiently  up  and  down  the  draw- 
ing-room waiting  for  dinner  to  be  announced. 

"As  Lucille  dines  with  us,  I  suppose  that  little  waif  must,"  she 
thought  angrily.  "  I  can't  suggest  to  Laura  that  he  should  eat  by 
himself,  and  his  table  manners  must  be  dreadful.  Really,  it  is  a 
great  trial  to  have  a  little  beggar  thrust  on  one  in  this  way."  Then 
a  new  thought  struck  her,  and  she  started  violently.  "  Dear,  dear, 
I  must  make  my  will  over;  I  must  make  it  so  that  thif?  little  waif 
can't  inherit  my  money  from  Edward.  I  wonder  if  they  have  legally 
adopted  him  ;  I  wonder  if  they  could.  I  must  see  my  lawyer  the  first 
thing  in  the  morning." 

When  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ainsworth,  with  Philip  between  them,  en- 
tered the  drawing-room,  they  were  prepared  for  a  very  cold  recep- 
tion. The  old  lady  retreated  to  her  chair  and  sat  upon  it  as  an 
offended  queen  might  sit  upon  her  throne ;  her  face  was  severe,  her 
eyes  were  like  points  of  steel.  She  allowed  her  son  to  kiss  her, 
then  turned  her  cheek,  with  a  cold  "How  do  you  do,  Laura?" 
toward  her  daughter-in-law. 

Mr.  Ainsworth  flushed  a  little,  and  his  voice  was  tremulous,  as 
he  said,  "  Mother,  this  is  our  adopted  son,  another  Philip;  I  hope  you 
will  love  him.  My  dear  boy,  this  lady  is  my  mother.  I  'm  sure 
you  *11  be  .as  fond  of  her  as  you  are  of  us." 


Ifi'' 
lit:" 


I 


io8 


TOINETTE  S    PHILIP 


Philip  came  forward  readily  and  held  out  his  hand  with 
friendly  smile. 

Madam  Ainsworth  put  up  her  lorgnette  and  looked  at  the  ch; 
steadily  and  severely;  then  she  reached  him  the  tips  of  her  finge 
while  she  said  sharply,  "  So  this  is  the  new  member  of  your  famil 
Where  is  the  resemblance  I  've  heard  so  much  about?  This  b 
is  very  brown — my  grandson  was  fair." 

Philip  shrank  back  as  though  he  had  received  a  blow ;  instir 
tively  he  felt  the  hostility  of  the  old  lady's  attitude.  He  look 
surprised  and  grieved,  and  his  lips  were  tremulous. 

Mrs.  Ainsworth  put  her  arm  around  him  protectingly,  and  sa 
with  unusual  tenderness,  "  Come,  my  dear,  let  us  look  at  the  pictui 
while  your  papa  talks  with  Madam  Ainsworth.  This,"  she  continue 
in  a  low  voice,  stopping  before  the  portrait  of  the  young  man  in 
officer's  uniform,  "  is  your  papa's  brother  who  was  killed  in  the  w; 
Your  papa  thinks  you  are  like  what  he  was  at  your  age ;  he  told  i 
so  before  I  ever  saw  you." 

In  the  six  months  that  had  passed  since  Toinette's  Philip  I 
came  Philip  Ainsworth,  the  boy  had  changed  somewhat.  The  aj 
ing  process  that  had  begun  with  his  first  sorrow  had  continued, 
now  all  the  chubby  infantine  look  was  gone  from  his  face;  he 
taller  and  thinner,  and  his  outdoor  life  among  the  mountains 
browned  his  rosy  skin  and  added  a  more  mature  color  to  the  delic 
tint  of  his  cheeks.  He  was  a  handsome,  manly  boy,  a  little  shy 
times,  but  never  awkward  nor  ill-bred ;  his  adoptive  parents 
never  had  cause  to  blush  at  any  rudeness  on  his  part.  As  far  as 
could  perceive  from  his  deportment,  he  might  have  been  born  to 
purple.  And,  as  Mr.  Ainsworth  had  said,  he  was  a  child  that 
could  love.  To  say  that  he  had  never  regretted  his  old  life  wo 
not  be  true.  There  had  been  times  through  that  delightful  sumr 
when  he  had  felt  a  little  homesick,  a  yearning  for  his  mammy 


V 


V 


eld  out  his  hand  with  a 

:te  and  looked  at  the  child 
lim  the  tips  of  her  fingers, 
w  member  of  your  family  ? 
much  about?    This  boy 

received  a  blow  ;  instinc- 
idy's  attitude.  He  looked 
i  tremulous. 

him  protectingly,  and  said, 
•,  let  us  look  at  the  pictures 
orth.  This,"  she  continued, 
lit  of  the  young  man  in  an 
who  was  killed  in  the  war. 
as  at  your  age ;  he  told  me 

since  Toinette's  Philip  be- 
iged  somewhat.     The  age- 
sorrow  had  continued,  and 
yone  from  his  face;  he  was 
among  the  mountains  had 
mature  color  to  the  delicate 
,  manly  boy,  a  little  shy  at 
his  adoptive  parents  had 
on  his  part.    As  far  as  one 
light  have  been  born  to  the 
d,  he  was  a  child  that  one 
-egretted  his  old  life  would 
ugh  that  deiightful  summer 
arning  for  his  mammy  and 


TOINEITE  S    PHILIP 


109 


the  old  garden,  a  longing  for  Dea,  for  Seline,  and  even  Lilybel.  At 
times  he  pined  for  the  Major  and  the  melodious  notes  of  the  Singer; 
often  and  often  he  fancied  that  he  heard  among  the  northern  forests 
a  litde  brown  bird  twitter  •'  sweety-sweety-sweet."  Sometimes  he 
would  go  away  by  himself,  and  lie  down  under  a  tree  and  cry  a  little, 
because  the  voices  of  nature  were  s*^range  to  him  ;  but  he  would  com- 
fort himself  by  talking  to  P^re  Josef's  "children,"  who  were  a  never- 
failing  source  of  amusement.  "  We  will  go  home  soon,"  he  would  say 
confidently ;  "  P^re  Josef  will  be  back.  It  will  be  spring,  and  we  will 
smell  the  sweet-olive  and  jasmine."  But  he  never  breathed  his 
regrets  to  any  one  beside  the  "  children  ";  he  was  always  bright  and 
happy,  because  he  was  always  occupied  and  amused;  the  newness 
of  a  life  of  ease  and  luxury  had  not  worn  off,  and  he  had  not  yet 
felt  the  restraints  of  a  higher  civilization. 

While  Mrs.  Ainsworth  and  Philip  were  still  looking  at  the  pic- 
tures, the  little  heiress  entered  followed  by  her  governess.  When 
the  boy  glanced  up  at  her  he  thought  that  she  looked  like  a  large 
doll  he  had  seen  one  Christmas  in  a  shop-window.  Lucille  was 
dressed  in  a  blue  silk  frock  covered  with  filmy  white  lace.  Like  the 
doll,  she  wore  blue  silk  stockings,  and  the  neatest  litde  shoes,  with 
narrow  straps  buttoned  around  her  ankles.  In  one  slender  hand  she 
carried  the  bunch  of  lilies-of-the-valley  that  she  had  worn  on  her 
muff  during  her  drive.  She  had  been  taught  that  it  was  an  indica- 
tion of  high  breeding  to  be  polite  to  every  one ;  so,  after  she  had 
welcomed  her  uncle  and  aunt  with  great  formality,  she  went  directly 
to  Philip,  and  gave  him  the  tips  of  her  fingers,  in  exacdy  the  manner 
of  her  grandmother,  as  she  said,  in  her  little  artificial  voice,  "  How  do 
you  do?  I  'm  very  happy  to  see  you."  Then  she  stood  off,  and 
scrutinized  him  impertinently  from  under  the  copper-colored  fringe 
that  covered  her  forehead. 

Philip  was  not  in  the  least  discohcerted,  but  rather  amused.     It 


"<» 


ip* 


lill 


m 


\ 


no 


TOINETTE  S    PHILIP 


was  as  if  the  doll  had  stepped  down  from  the  shop-window  and  said. 
"  How  do  you  do? "  So  he  began  to  chatter  in  the  most  cordial  way, 
and  even  felt  a  desire  to  pull  a  strand  of  the  copper- colored  hair  to 
see  if  the  doll  would  resent  the  liberty  ;  but  he  restrained  himself,  be- 
cause Madam  Ainsworth  was  looking  at  him  severely,  and  she  even 
frowned  at  him.  She  did  not  like  to  see  the  litde  heiress  and  the 
little  waif  walking  out  to  dinner  side  by  side.  "This  will  never  do," 
she  thought ;  "  I  shan't  encourage  any  intimacy."  So  she  put  them 
at  opposite  sides  of  the  table. 

There  is  a  sort  of  freemasonry  between  children  which  makes 
them  understand  each  other.  In  spite  of  Lucille's  haughty  airs  Philip 
felt  very  friendly  toward  her,  and  from  time  to  time  he  looked  across 
the  table  and  smiled  at  her  as  she  sat  in  state  beside  her  governess. 
He  thought  it  very  amusing  that  the  fine  lady  next  to  her  treated 
her  with  so  much  deference,  that  Helen  in  her  white  cap  stood  behind 
her  chair,  and  that  the  stately  burier  in  livery  bent  almost  double  when 
he  spoke  to  her. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ainsworth  had  been  living  in  fashionable  hotels 
all  summer,  and  Philip  had  become  accustomed  to  formal  service  and 
more  or  less  ceremony,  but  he  had  never  seen  anything  like  this 
dinner.  He  could  scarcely  eat,  so  busy  was  he  watching  the  move- 
ments of  the  burier,  and  the  airs  of  Lucille.  When  the  burier 
changed  his  plates,  he  thanked  him  audibly,  and  smiled  up  in  his 
face,  as  if  he  were  an  old  friend ;  and  the  burier,  although  he  looked 
like  a  wooden  man,  was  thinking  to  himself,  "  Pretty  litrie  chap. 
I  'd  like  to  smile  back  at  'im,  if  I  dared."  And  Philip  felt  that  they 
were  congenial.  In  fact,  so  well  did  he  like  him,  that  he  tried  to  be 
obliging  in  litrie  ways.  He  would  have  assisted  him  in  changing 
the  plates,  but  Madam  Ainsworth  looked  at  him  so  severely,  and  the 
fine  lady  in  the  glittering  jet  frowned  so,  and  even  his  papa  and 
mamma  made  litrie  signs  of  displeasure.     He  only  meant  to  be  kind, 


'r~ 


TOINETTE'S   PHILIP 


III 


i: 


shop-window  and  said, 
in  the  most  cordial  way, 
copper-colored  hair  to 
e  restrained  himself,  be- 
severely,  and  she  even 
e  little  heiress  and  the 
"  This  will  never  do," 
acy."     So  she  put  them 

n  children  which  makes 
:ille's  haughty  airs  Philip 
to  time  he  looked  across 
te  beside  her  governess, 
lady  next  to  her  treated 
;r  white  cap  stood  behind 
bent  almost  double  when 

ng  in  fashionable  hotels 
led  to  formal  service  and 

seen  anything  like  this 
s  he  watching  the  move- 
icille.  When  the  butler 
ly,  and  smiled  up  in  his 
utler,  although  he  looked 
self,  "Pretty  little  chap. 
\nd  Philip  felt  that  they 
i  him,  that  he  tried  to  be 
Lssisted  him  in  changing 
him  so  severely,  and  the 

and  even  his  papa  and 
[e  only  meant  to  be  kind. 


but  perhaps,  after  all,  he  was  not  behaving  quite  properly  at  such 
a  grand  dinner.  Then  he  wondered  if  it  was  like  this  every  day, 
and  he  thought  how  tired  he  would  get  of  seeing  the  butler  change 
the  plates  so  many  times.  However,  he  was  glad  when  at  last  it 
was  over  and  he  was  in  the  drawing-room  again.  Then  he  thought 
of  the  "  children  "  all  alone  in  his  room,  and  wondered  if  the  red-haired 
little  girl  would  like  to  see  them ;  even  though  she  looked  like  a 
doll,  he  was  sure  she  would  be  pleased  with  P^re  Josef's  "  children."  . 
So  he  watched  his  chance,  and  while  the  elders  of  the  party  were 
looking  over  some  of  his  papa's  sketches,  he  boldly  approached 
Lucille,  and  asked  her  if  she  would  like  to  see  P^re  Josef's  •'  children." 

"  Children ! "  she  exclaimed,  raising  her  haughty  little  head,  and 
looking  at  him  with  cold  surprise.     "  Where  are  they?  " 

"  They  're  in  my  room  in  a  cage." 

"  In  a  cage !    What  do  you  mean  ?    What  are  they  ?  ** 

"  They  are  little  mice,  dear  little  white  mice." 

"  Mice,  little  mice,  oh,  oh  !  "  and  her  voice  sounded  quite  shrill  and 
natural,  while  her  little  blue  feet  were  drawn  up  under  her  in  a  trice. 
'^Mue/    Where?" 

"  What  is  it,  darling;  what  has  frightened  you  ?  She  is  quite  pale ; 
run.  Mademoiselle,  run  for  my  vinaigrette,"  cried  Madam  Ainsworth. 

"  Oh,  grandmama,  he  says  he  has  them  in  his  room — just  think, 
mice  in  his  room,  and  he  wants  ^y  bring  them  here;  don't  let  him 
bring  them  here." 

"  No,  no,  my  darling,  he  sha'n't.  Edward,  take  that  boy  away ;  he 
has  given  Lucille  a  dreadful  shock ;  take  him  away  immediately." 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ainsworth  were  almost  convulsed  with  laughter 
at  the  absurd  scene,  and  Philip  did  not  understand  in  the  least  what 
had  happened,  nor  why  they  led  him  so  hastily  from  the  room.' 

•'  He  has  gone  now,  darling.  Do  you  feel  better  ?  Dear  me ! 
what  a  strange  boy.     I  shall  have  to  request  your  uncle  not  to  bring 


^ 


r~ 


IT*" 


112 


TOINETTES   PHILIP 


him  into  the  drawing-room  again  if  he  talks  about  such  things  as 
mice"  Then  she  added  to  herself — '•  But  what  can  one  expect  of 
a  little  waif — a  little  street-gamin.  It  is  just  as  I  thought ;  I  must 
keep  Lucille  away  from  him." 

When  Philip  reached  the  door  of  his  room,  he  turned  to  Mrs. 
Ainsworth,  and  said  in  a  puzzled  voice,  "  Mama,  did  she,  or  did  lit 
she  want  to  see  Pere  Josef's  '  children '  ?  " 

"  She  did  nt  want  to  see  them,  my  dear.     She  is  afraid  of  them, 
and  you  must  not  speak  of  them  to  her  again." 

Almost  as  soon  as  Philip's  head  touched  his  pillow  he  was 
asleep,  and  he  had  a  funny  little  dream.  He  thought  he  was  show- 
ing P^re  Josef's  "children"  to  the  large  doll  in  the  shop-window, 
when  suddenly  it  screamed  and  drew  up  its  feet;  then  some  one 
cried,  "  Run,  Mademoiselle ;  run  quick  and  fetch  my  vinaigrette,  the 
poor  doll  has  fainted." 


/ 


!\. 


r- 


ibout  such  things  as 
It  can  one  expect  of 
as  I  thought ;   I  must 

n,  he  turned  to  Mrs. 
a,  did  she,  or  did  lit 

)he  is  afraid  of  them, 

:d  his  pillow  he  was 
hought  he  was  show- 
in  the  shop-window, 
feet;  then  some  one 
;h  my  vinaigrette,  the 


/ 


Chapter  XIX 


-^■• 


QUASIMODO    FURNISHES    A   CLUE 

AKEW  mornings  after  his  arrival  in  New  York,  Mr.  Ainsworth 
was  in  his  studio  busily  engaged  in  ^^f '"g 'i'!.  P'^^^^f/ 
the  Academy  exhibition.  It  was  the  study  of  Ph.l.p  and  Dea, 
his  little  New  Orleans  models,  and  it  was  very  natural  and  charmmg. 
He  thought  it  better  in  color  than  anything  he  had  ever  done, 
and  he  was  anxious  to  have  the  opinion  ofa  connoisseur,  when  the 
door  was  opened,  and  the  one  of  all  others  whom  he  most  w.sh.d  to 
see  entered  briskly.     He  was  a  tall,  dark  man.  with  a  foreign  air, 

-'  ;;:^Sc:^t:r"his  d.air,  and  holding  all  h.  imple- 
ments in  one  hand,  held  out  the  other  cordially.  ^Why,  Detrava 
how  are  you?  The  very  man  I  wanted  to  see.  Take  a  chair,  and 
tell  me  what  you  think  of  this."  «  "     AnH  the 

.'  Hard  at  it.  eh !  my  friend.  Something  good,  I  see.  And  the 
visitor  laid  his  hat  and  stick  on  the  table,  and  leaning  over  the  artist  s 
shoulder  looked  for  some  time  critically  at  the  Picture. 

..  Excellent,  my  friend,  excellent,"  he  said  heartily         It  s  admir 
able  in  drawing,  and  there  's  feeling  in  it.  a  natural  pose,  and  the 
^olor  fine  plastit  and  strong.    Interesting  little  subjects,  picturesque, 
vpry.     Where  did  you  pick  them  up? 

"  Oh.  in  that  artist's  Eldorado.  New  Orleans. 

«'  You  were  there  all  winter,  were  you  not? "      ^ 

"  Yes,  I  went  to  stay  a  month,  and  I  stayed  six. 

"You  like  it  then?" 


I 


i3i 


w 


M 


«n 


r- 


114 


TOINETTE'S   PHILIP 


lii  i 


"  Very  much ;  an  odd  old  town,  drowsy  and  dull,  but  full  of  color, 
and  no  end  of  material  for  a  painter." 

'<  I  have  always  meant  to  go  there.  I  ought  to  go;  1  have  a  ht- 
tie  property  there.  One  of  our  family  settled  there  many  years  ago, 
and  made  quite  a  fortune,  but  the  most  of  it  was  lost  through  the  war. 
However,  there  were  none  of  that  branch  left  to  inherit  it,  and  the  rem- 
nant came  to  me.  I  have  never  been  able  to  sell  it,  and  it  's  been 
more  trouble  than  profit.     I  think  I  11  go  some  day  and  look  after  it 

"  I  would,  if  I  were  you,"  returned  Mr.  Ainsworth.  "  You  would 
enjoy  the  place.    It  's  an  artist's  paradise  compared  to  these  busy 

northern  cities."  •     i      i  • 

"Well,  what  did  you  pick  up  there  in  the  way  of  curios .<•  i  m 
told  that  one  sometimes  happens  on  a  good  piece." 

"Yes  there  are  some  old  Spanish  and  French  things  well  worth 
having    '  I  got  that  cabinet  and  this  chair ;  rather  good,  are  n't  they? 
Oh  but  here  is  a  little  curiosity,  an  example  of  exquisite  modeling  " 
Mr.  Ainsworth  jumped  up  with  alacrity,  and  taking  Quasimodo  from  the 
cabinet  he  set  the  remarkable  little  figure  on  the  table  before  the  visi- 
tor    "There!  what  do  you  think  of  that?"  he  asked,  with  satisfaction. 
Mr  Detrava  looked  at  the  little  object  silently  for  a  moment; 
then  he  said  in  a  subdued  voice,  "  I  had  a  brother  who  did  that 
kind  of  thing  remarkably  well.     It  reminds  me  of  his  work.       Then 
he  took  the  little  figure  from  the  table  to  examine  it  more  closely, 
and  on  the  base  he  saw  engraved,  in  tiny  letters,  Victor  Hugo/eai. 
"  Why,  Ainsworth.  how  strange!   Victor  Hugo,  my  brother's  name. 

Who  made  this ! "  .    .  u       •  * 

"  The  father  of  my  little  model,  there,"  pointing  to  the  picture. 
"  The  child  was  selling  them  on  the  street,  and  I  bought  it  from  her 
A  very  sad  case,  as  near  as  I  could  find  out.  the  artist  was  ill.  and 
poor-so  wretchedly  poor!     I  bought  a  number  of  his  things^^all 
subjects  from  Victor  Hugo's  works.     The  little  girl  was  named  Dea, 


/- 


TOINETTE  S   PHILIP 


•15 


lull,  but  full  of  color, 

to  go ;  I  have  a  lit- 
ere  many  years  ago, 
lost  through  the  war. 
Inherit  it,  and  the  rem- 
sell  it,  and  it  's  been 
ay  and  look  after  it." 
(worth.  "  You  would 
ipared  to  these  busy 

way  of  curios  ?      I  'm 
ce." 

ich  things  well  worth 
cr  good,  are  n't  they? 
■  exquisite  modeling." 
g  Quasimodo  from  the 
e  table  before  the  visi- 
sked,  with  satisfaction, 
ilently  for  a  moment; 
brother  who  did  that 
;  of  his  work."  Then 
imine  it  more  closely, 
:rs,  Victor  Hugo/edL 
3,  my  brother's  name. 

inting  to  the  picture. 
I  bought  it  from  her. 
the  artist  was  ill,  and 
iber  of  his  things,  all 
:  girl  was  named  Dea, 


and  she  had  an  old  dog  she  called  Homo.  It  was  really  interesting, 
so  original  and  picturesque." 

"  See  here,  Ainsworth,"  said  Mr.  Detrava,  after  a  moment  of  deep 
thought,  "  I  believe  the  man  who  modeled  that  figure  is  my  brother 
Victor.  I  have  been  looking  for  him  for  the  past  eight  years.  It 
was  a  fancy  of  my  mother's,  who  was  an  ardent  admirer  of  the 
great  French  writer,  to  name  him  Victor  Hugo.  He  was  a  strange, 
dreamy  character,  and  from  childhood  he  had  this  peculiar  talent. 
My  father  wanted  to  make  a  sculptor  of  him,  but  he  had  no  am- 
bition. When  he  was  a  little  over  twenty-one  he  married  my  sis- 
ter's governess.  You  can  imagine  the  result:  offended  parents  on 
one  side,  pride  and  a  stubborn  will  on  the  other.  One  fine  day, 
without  a  word  of  farewell,  he  took  his  wife  and  started  for  America, 
and  from  th?it  time  we  lost  every  trace  of  him.  My  father  relented, 
and  tried  to  discover  his  whereabouts,  but  he  never  succeeded.  And 
since  my  residence  in  New  York,  I  have  spared  neither  time  nor 
money  in  my  efforts  to  find  him.  This  is  the  first  clue,"  with  a 
glance  at  Quasimodo,  "  and  I  think  it  will  lead  to  something." 

"  I  am  sure  it  will,"  returned  Mr.  Ainsworth.  "Everything  agrees. 
The  artist  in  wax  came  from  France  about  eight  years  ago.  The 
child  was  named  Dea  for  her  mother.  Her  father's  name  is  Victor 
Hugo ;  he  doubtless  dropped  his  last  name.  I  think  there  can  be  no 
doubt.     I  feel  confident  that  he  is  your  brother." 

"  And  you  say  he  is  poor,  miserably  poor — and  ill — and  I  have 
plenty.  I  must  start  at  once  and  follow  this  clue.  Can  you  give  me 
directions,  so  that  I  can  find  him  when  I  reach  New  Orleans." 

"  He  lives  on  Viller6  street ;  I  never  heard  the  number,  but  I  think 
I  know  how  you  can  find  it,"  replied  Mr.  Ainsworth.  Then  he  told 
Mr.  Detrava  about  Seline.  "  If  you  can  find  the  old  woman,  she  will 
assist  you,  and  possibly  Dea  might  be  with  her.  I  am  sure  there  will 
be  no  difficulty  when  you  are  once  there." 


..^.LJWl.JJ.l!'IJJ-""iJ1'ilfnfriMirtttiii|iiii'rriiiiiriir1'i"    w  ii  |'— ■p*— *f— ti^ 


ii6 


TOINETTES    PHILIP 


After  Mr.  Detrava  had  written  all  the  directions  very  carefully  in 
his  memorandum  book,  he  examined  the  picture  again  with  a  great 
deal  of  interest. 

"  What  a  delicate,  sweet-faced  child !  poor  little  thing,  how  hard  it 
has  been  for  her!  If  I  find  her,  and  she  is  my  brother's  child,  I  mean 
to  take  care  of  her  for  the  future.  I  feel  interested  in  her  already. 
How  lucky  that  I  happened  in  here  this  morning,  Ainsworth !  I  in- 
tended to  start  for  Paris  next  week,  instead  I  shall  start  for  New 
Orleans.  I  can't  rest  until  I  know.  So  good-by,  my  friend,  I  shall  see 
your  artist's  paradise  sooner  than  I  expected,  and  I  trust  my  journey 
won't  be  in  vain." 

"  Good-by,  and  good  luck,"  replied  Mr.  Ainsworth  heartily,  and  as 
Mr.  Detrava  reached  the  door  he  added :  "  If  you  remain  in  New 
Orleans  all  winter  you  may  see  me  there.  If  nothing  happens  I  in- 
tend to  be  there  when  the  jasmine  and  orange-trees  are  in  bloom." 

"Ah,  well,  we  may  meet  there,  then.  Au  revot'r,  my  friend,  and 
not  good-by." 


r- 


tions  very  carefully  in 
re  again  with  a  great 

trie  thing,  how  hard  it 
irother's  child,  I  mean 
•ested  in  her  already, 
ng,  Ainsworth  !  I  in- 
I  shall  start  for  New 
',  my  friend,  I  shall  see 
nd  I  trust  my  journey 

iworth  heartily,  and  as 
f  you  remain  in  New 
nothing  happens  I  in- 
trees  are  in  bloom." 
revoir,  my  friend,  and 


Chapter  XX 

AN    INNOCENT    MISTAKE 

ONE  day  the  litrie  heiress  came  home  from  dancing-school  in  a 
i   very  bad  humor,  even  though  her  governess  had  told  her 
'   that  it  was  exceedingly  ill-bred  to  show  temper,  no  matter 
how  provoking  the  circumstances  might  be.  .    u   i      « 

After  much  serious  consideration.  Madam  Amsworth  had  con- 
sented to  allow  Philip  to  attend  dancing-school  in  the  company  of 
Luc  lie   and   her  governess.     "I   don't  do   it  because  I  wish  to, 
^h     aid  confidentially  to  Mademoiselle.     <'Mrs  A-sworth  asked  me 
whether  the  boy  might  go  with  Lucille,  and  she  .s  so  foohshly  fond 
Tf  1  that  I  cUd  not  like  to  hurt  her  feelings  by  refusmg,  but  you 
must  be  very  discreet.  Mademoiselle,  you  must  not  allow  them  to 
become  too  friendly,  and  if  the  boy  is  forward  or  in  the  least  rude, 
vou  have  my  full  authority  to  reprove  him. 

^".  I  understand  perfecriy.  Madam."  replied  the  governess,  wUh  great 
ditrnity.     •' I  can  assure  you  I  shall  do  my  duty. 

^.  U  is  surprising  to  me."  conrinued  Madam  Amsworth  m  a  vexed 
tone,  "that  the  boy  is  so  little  impressed  with  my  grand-daughter s 
po'rion.  I  don't  think  he  in  the  least  understands  that  she  .s  his 
Lnerior  or  he  would  treat  her  with  more  deference. 

%"kam  Ainsworth  had  guessed  the  truth.     Philip  d>d  not  con 
sider  Lucille  his  superior  in  any  way.     In  fact,  he  had  never  taken 
the  little  heiress  seriously;  to  him  she  was  ^^-V ^^e  °ver-dres  ed 
doll,  the  dainty  little  puppet,  rather  than  a  real  flesh  »"d  blood  d,.ld 
Often  he  would  stand  with  his  hands  behmd  h,m,  """""g  "j^  °r![: 
curiously,  his  blue  eyes  full  of  amusement,  while  the  haughty  l.ttle 

8*  "7 


r- 


ii8 


TOINETTE  S   PHILIP 


hX 


creature  chafed  and  fumed  under  his  laughing  scrutiny.  Sometimes 
he  would  be  possessed  with  a  spirit  of  mischief,  when  suddenly  ho 
would  shock  and  vex  her  beyond  endurance  by  taking  ihe  most  un- 
warrantable liberties  with  her  poodle,  such  as  standing  him  on  his 
head,  or  tying  his  huge  bow  on  his  fluffy  little  tail.  And  even  the 
dignified  little  lady  almost  relaxed  into  a  smile,  when,  one  day,  the 
small  animal  jumped  into  the  carriage,  just  as  she  was  starting  for 
her  drive,  with  a  pair  of  her  grandmama's  spectacles  fastened  securely 
over  his  big  black  eyes,  and  the  silky  fringe  that  covered  his  face 
drawn  back  and  tied  in  a  stiff  bunch  on  the  top  of  his  tiny  head, 
which  made  him  look  ridiculously  old  and  wise.  Lucille  quickly 
suppressed  the  involuntary  smile,  and  scornfully  remarked  that  Philip 
was  an  ill-bred  boy,  while  mademoiselle  frowned  severely  and  mut- 
tered something  in  French  that  sounded  like  "mauvats  sujet" 

Then  Philip,  laughing  merrily,  would  run  to  his  room  to  tell  the 
children  that  he  had  made  the  doll  angry,  or  if  he  met  the  old  butler, 
he  would  even  slyly  whisper  it  to  him. 

"  Bless  me.  Master  Philip,  my  boy,"  the  old  man  would  say, 
chuckling  to  himself,  "  'ow  you  do  play  tricks  on  the  young  lady. 
If  I  was  you  I  would  n't  darst  for  the  life  of  me  to  take  no  liberties 
with  'er;  she  looks  so  'igh  an'  mighty  an'  that  Frenchwoman  'olds 
'er  'ead  like  one  of  the  royalty." 

"  Don't  you  tell  any  one,  Mr.  Butler," —  Philip  mistook  that 
respectable  title  of  servitude  for  the  old  man's  name,  —  "and  some 
day  I  'm  going  to  get  even  with  Lucille.  I  've  got  a  plan — I  just 
want  to  hear  her  scream  again  like  she  did  that  night  when  I  told 
her  about  P^re  Josef's  'children.'     It  was  so  funny." 

The  old  man  muttered  something  about  "  a  hawful  little  pickle," 
and  went  off  grinning. 

On  this  day,  when  Lucille  came  from  dancing-school,  in  such 
a  temper  that  even  the  gentle  Helen  was  made  aware  of  it  by  some 
very  haughty  orders,  she  went  directly  to  her  grandmama's  room. 


^ 


TOINETTES    PHILIP 


119 


icrutiny.  Sometimes 
(,  when  suddenly  he- 
taking  ihe  most  11  n- 
standing  him  on  his 
tail.  And  even  the 
:,  when,  one  day,  the 
she  was  starting  for 
icles  fastened  securely 
that  covered  hii  face 
top  of  his  tiny  head, 
vise.  Lucille  quickly 
y^  remarked  that  Philip 
ed  severely  and  mut- 
mauvais  sujet" 
to  his  room  to  tell  the 
he  met  the  old  butler, 

old  man  would  say, 
:s  on  the  young  lady, 
ne  to  take  no  liberties 
at  Frenchwoman  'olds 

-Philip  mistook   that 

s  name,  —  "and  some 

ve  got  a  plan — I  just 

hat  night  when  I  told 

iinny." 

a  hawful  little  pickle," 

incing-school,  in  such 
e  aware  ©f  it  by  some 
j^randmama's  room. 


Madam  Ainsworth  was  writing,  but  she  instantly  laid  down 
her  pen,  and  looked  with  dismay  at  the  flushed,  angry  face  of  the 
little  heiress. 

"  Why,  my  darling,"  she  began,  "  what  has  happened  ? " 

"  It  's  that  insufferable  boy,  grandmama.  I  really  cannot  endure 
him." 

"  Why,  why,  what?    He  has  n't  dared  to  be  rude,  has  he?" 

"  No,  not  exactly  rude,  but  so  stupid — so  stupid  as  to  tell  all 
about  himself;  he  mortified  me  extremely ;  he  made  me  ashamed 
of  him.     It  was  so  humiliating,  and  before  Gladys  Bleeker,  too." 

'•  What  did  he  do,  Lucille?  What  did  he  say?"  and  Madam 
Ainsworth's  voice  shook  with  indignation. 

"  It  was  so  unnecessary.  We  were  standing  together,  Gladys 
and  I,  waiting  for  a  cotillon  to  be  formed,  when  Philip  came  up,  and 
I  was  foolish  enough  to  introduce  him  to  her  as  my  cousin.  Only 
think,  my  cousin !  But  just  then  he  appeared  so  nice  that  I  was  not 
ashamed  of  him.  Gladys  was  holding  a  bunch  of  violets,  and  sud- 
denly he  took  them  from  her,  and  looked  at  them  as  if  he  would 
devour  them.  Then  he  said  loud  enough  for  every  one  to  hear: 
'  I  like  violets ;  I  used  to  sell  lots  of  them  in  New  Orleans.* 

"  '  Why,  what  do  you  mean  ?  '  asked  Gladys.  '  You  used  to  sell 
violets  ?     Why,  you  must  be  jesting  ! ' 

"  '  No  I  'm  not,'  he  replied.  '  I  used  to  sell  flowers  on  Rue  Roy- 
ale.     I  made  plenty  of  money  for  Mammy.* 

"  Gladys  laughed,  and  looked  at  me  so  spitefully.  Oh,  grand- 
mama,  I  thought  I  should  faint.  I  was  quite  overcome  for  a  moment. 
It  was  so  dreadful,  when  I  had  just  introduced  him  as  my  cousin." 

"It  was,  my  dear.  What  a  shocking  boy  he  is,'*  said  Madam 
Ainsworth,  bitterly.  "  It  *s  just  what  I  expected.  And  to  think  of 
your  being  annoyed  by  such  a  common  little  waif.  I  *m  afraid  you  *11 
be  ill.  You  are  so  excited,  so  nervous.  But  don*t  fret,  darling. 
Perhaps,  after  all,  Gladys  thought  he  was  jesting." 


•ii' 


120 


TOINETTE  S   PHILIP 


"  No,  no,  grandmama.  I  'm  sure  she  thought  he  was  speaking 
the  truth.  1  was  so  shocked  that  I  could  n't  stay  to  finish  my  lesson. 
I  had  Mademoiselle  bring  me  home  direcdy ;  and,  really  —  really,  1 
can't  go  again  with  that  ill-bred  boy." 

"  You  shall  not,  my  dear.  I  will  speak  to  your  aunt.  He  must 
not  be  allowed  to  go  anywhere  with  you.     He  must  not  distress  you 

in  this  way."  ' 

An  hour  later  Madam  Ainsworth  and  her  daughter-in-law  had 
a  rather  unpleasant  interview,  which  resulted  in  the  termination  of 
Philip's  dancing  lessons. 

"  He  should  be  punished  severely,  Laura,"  insisted  Madam  Ains- 
worth. "  He  should  not  be  allowed  to  distress  Lucille  in  this  way. 
He  has  made  the  poor  child  quite  ill.  He  certainly  should  be  pun- 
ished." 

'•  But  how  can  I  punish  him  for  simply  telling  the  truth,"  pleaded 
Mrs.  Ainsworth.  "  He  did  not  know  that  there  was  any  impropriety 
in  his  telling  the  truth." 

"He  should  be  taught  that  the  truth  is  not  to  be  spoken  at  all 
times,"  returned  Madam  Ainsworth,  decidedly. 

"  Oh,  I  could  not  make  him  understand  that!  Truthfulness  is  his 
great  virtue.  He  is  so  frank,  so  honest,  he  would  see  only  deception 
and  falsehood  where  a  more  mature  mind  would  discriminate.  I 
would  not  for  worlds  confuse  his  impressions  of  right  and  wrong. 
His  ideas  are  so  simple  and  clear  on  those  points  that  it  would  be 
cruel  to  change  them." 

•     "  Very  well.     Since  you  approve  of  his  annoying  Lucille,  he  can- 
not be  allowed  to  go  out  with  her." 

"  Lucille  should  not  have  been  annoyed  by  his  innocent  remark," 
returned  Mrs.  Ainsworth,  coldly.  "And  as  to  his  going  out  with 
her,  that  is  entirely  as  you  wish.  I  can  keep  him  away  from  dancing- 
school,  but  I  cannot  punish  him  for  telling  the  truth." 


'  r~ 


fht  he  was  speaking' 
ly  to  finish  my  lesson. 
ind,  really  —  really,  I 

r'oiir  aunt.      He  must 
I  must  not  distress  you 

daughter-in-law  had 
in  the  termination  of 

insisted  Madam  Ains- 
5s  Lucille  in  this  way. 
rtainly  should  be  pun- 

rjg  the  truth,"  pleaded 
2  was  any  impropriety 

ot  to  be  spoken  at  all 

itf  Truthfulness  is  his 
uld  see  only  deception 
(rould  discriminate.  I 
;  of  right  and  wrong, 
jints  that  it  would  be 

oying  Lucille,  he  can- 

his  innocent  remark," 
o  his  going  out  with 
n  away  from  dancing- 
truth." 


Chapter  XXI 


THE    POOR    DOLL    FAINTS 


AS  the  winter  passed  away,  and  the  days  of  early  spring  ap- 
/\  proached,  Philip  began  to  show  signs  of  restlessness,  and 
i  V  anxiety  for  a  change.  Mr.  Ainsworth  had  spoken  of  going 
South  in  March,  and  Philip  counted  away  the  weeks  until  that  usu- 
ally rude  month,  coming  in  like  a  lamb  instead  of  the  traditional  lion, 
brought  soft  sunshine,  with  a  hint  of  spring  on  the  air. 

One  day  when  Philip  was  taking  his  lesson  in  drawing,  for  he 
had  begun  a  regular  course  of  study  early  in  the  winter,  and  was 
'leaking  such  rapid  progress  that  Mr.  Ainsworth  was  delighted,  he 
looked  up  suddenly  and  said,  with  a  touch  of  anxiety  in  his  voice : 
"  Shall  we  start  soon  now,  papa  ?  It 's  March ;  and  you  said  we 
should  go  in  March." 

"  Why,  Philip,  are  n't  you  contented  here  ?  I  'm  sure  it  *s  very 
pleasant.     I  don't  feel  like  going  while  this  fine  weather  lasts." 

"  But,  papa,  it  's  time  for  Pfere  Josef  to  be  back,  and  I  must 
be  home  when  he  gets  back." 

"  Why  is  it  so  imperative  that  you  should  be  there  as  soon  as 
he  is?" 

"Because  I  have  his  'children,'  and  I  must  take  them  to  him. 
He  only  leftvthem  with  me  while  he  was  gone,  and  it  would  not  be 
right  to  keep  them  after  he  gets  back.  And  then,  there  is  some- 
thing I  want  to  ask  him." 

"  What  is  it,  Philip  ?     What  do  you  want  to  ask  him  ?  " 

"  About  my  father  and  mother.  Mammy  said  he  would  tell  me. 
And  she  said  he  had  some  papers  for  me." 


4 


w^ 


122 


TOINETTE  S   PHILIP 


'ij  ! 


1;!  ii 


"  Really !  did  she  tell  you  that !  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Ainsworth, 
excitedly.       "  Why  did  n't  you  let  me  know  of  that  before,  Philip  ?  " 

"  I  did  n't  think  of  it,  papa.  And  it  would  n't  have  been  any  use 
while  he  was  away.  But  now  if  he  's  back,  I  want  to  see  him  awfully, 
to  ask  him  that  question." 

"  So  do  I,  my  dear  boy.  I  will  write  to  the  priest  at  St.  Mary's  — 
P^re  Martin,  is  n't  he  called  ?  He  can  tell  me  if  P^re  Josef  has 
returned,  or  where  a  letter  will  reach  him." 

"  Yes,  Pfere  Martin  will  know,"  replied  Philip,  eagerly.  "And 
can't  you  ask  him  about  Dea  ?  "  he  added,  softly.  "  I  'm  anxious 
about  Dea.  I  'm  afraid  her  money  is  all  gone,  and  that  she  can't 
sell  ?\y  of  her  father's  little  figures.  I  want  to  go  back  to  help 
her." 

"  My  dear,  I  have  some  good  news  for  you  from  Dea,"  said 
Mr.  Ainsworth,  smiling  tenderly,  as  he  looked  at  the  boy's  flushed, 
earnest  face.  "I  wanted  to  let  your  mama  know  first — it  makes  her 
so  happy  to  tell  you  pleasant  things ;  but  I  won't  keep  you  waiting. 
I  had  a  letter  this  morning  from  Mr.  Detrava.  You  remember 
I  told  you  about  my  friend,  who  started  some  time  ago  for  New 
Orleans,  with  the  idea  that  Dea's  father  was  his  brother,  for  whom 
he  had  been  searching  a  long  time.  Well,  he  was  right.  The  artist 
in  wax  is  Victor  Hugo  Detrava,  the  only  brother  of  my  friend — and 
heir  with  him  to  a  handsome  fortune  in  France.  So  Dea  is  well 
provided  for,  her  uncle  is  unmarried,  and  from  his  letter  I  can  tell 
that  he  is  charmed  with  his  lovely  little  niece." 

Philip's  face  was  a  study  of  various  emotions,  surprise  and  joy 
predominating,  while  he  listened  to  Mr.  Ainsworth.  "  I  'm  so  glad 
that  Dea  has  some  one  to  take  care  of  her,"  he  exclaimed,  when  the 
artist  had  finished  his  pleasant  story.  "  And  she  is  rich !  Now  she 
can  buy  her  father  all  the  books  he  wants,  how  happy  she  will  be! 
I  wish  I  could  see  her  to  tell  her  how  glad  I  am." 


r~ 


TOINETTES    PHILIP 


123 


aimed  Mr.  Ainsworth, 
of  that  before,  Philip  ?  " 
n't  have  been  any  use 
vrant  to  see  him  awfully, 

i  priest  at  St.  Mary's  — 
me  if  P^re  Josef  has 

Philip,  eagerly.     "And 

softly.     *'  I  'm  anxious 

)ne,  and  that  she  can't 

mt  to  go  back  to  help 

r  you  from  Dea,"  said 
ed  at  the  boy's  flushed, 
now  first — it  makes  her 
ivon't  keep  you  waiting. 
:trava.  You  remember 
ome  time  ago  for  New 
is  his  brother,  for  whom 
le  was  right.  The  artist 
)ther  of  my  friend — and 
ranee.  So  Dea  is  well 
•om  his  letter  I  can  tell 

otions,  surprise  and  joy 
sworth.  "  I  'm  so  glad 
he  exclaimed,  when  the 
d  she  is  rich  !  Now  she 
liow  happy  she  will  be! 
am." 


'•  You  shall,  my  dear  Philip.  If  Pfere  Josef  is  back  we  shall  start 
for  the  South  within  a  week  or  two." 

Philip  was  in  the  highest  spirits.  To  be  back  in  his  old  home, 
to  see  Dea  and  P^re  Josef — oh,  it  was  delightful  to  think  of.  He 
laughed  and  chattered  incessantly,  and  was  so  excited  over  the  good 
news  that  he  could  hardly  attend  to  his  lesson.  He  had  not  been 
happy  lately.  Since  the  dancing-school  episode.  Madam  Ainsworth 
had  treated  him  so  severely,  and  Lucille  had  looked  at  him  so 
disdainfully,  that  he  knew  he  had  offended  them  seriously,  though 
in  what  way  he  could  not  imagine.  They  surely  could  not  be  so 
angry  with  him  for  his  harmles?  pranks  with  the  poodle.  However, 
he  did  not  care  now;  he  was  going  away  from  them — he  was  going 
home,  and  he  was  so  merry  that  Lucille  was  more  indignant  than 
ever.  She  felt  that  he  was  not  in  the  least  sorry  for  humiliating  her 
in  the  presence  of  Gladys  Bleeker — who,  although  she  pretended  to 
be  her  friend,  was  really  her  enemy,  for  she  had  repeated  Philip's 
indiscreet  remark  to  every  girl  in  dancing- school.  Therefore,  each 
time  she  went  to  take  her  lesson,  she  returned  home  in  a  very  dis- 
agreeable humor,  and  Philip  had  to  bear  her  contemptuous  airs  as 
he  best  could. 

"  It 's  no  use,"  he  thought  to  himself;  "she  won't  ever  like  me, 
and  she  treats  me  worse  than  she  does  Fluff.  I  've  got  to  get  even 
with  her.     I  've  got  to  have  some  fun  before  I  go." 

One  day,  when  she  returned  from  her  airing,  very  much  excited 
because  Gladys  Bleeker  had  bowed  coldly  to  her  when  they  met 
in  the  park,  Philip  was  in  the  butler's  pantry  alone,  huddled  behind 
the  partly  closed  door,  with  an  air  of  great  secrecy.  Suddenly 
a  piercing  shriek  came  from  the  hall — -not  one,  but  a  succession 
of  shrill  screams,  which  filled  the  house  and  brought  Madam  Ains- 
worth to  the  head  of  the  stairs,  pale  and  trembling  with  terror. 
Mademoiselle  had  jumped  on  a  chair,  and  was  holuing  her  skirts  up 


124 


TOINETTE  S    PHILIP 


ill 


II  I! 


in  a  most  undignified  position,  while  Lucille  was  scrambling  on  to 
the  hall  table,  her  hair  and  feathers  in  the  wildest  disorder,  her  eyes 


"LUCILLE    WAS    SCRAMBLING    ON    TO    THE    HALL    TABLE 


wide  with  fear,  while  from  her  parted  lips  issued  cries  which  might 
have  been  heard  a  block  away. 


liiiii 


'jfi-iSfximfM: 


r- 


TOINETTES   PHILIP 


125 


vas  scrambling  on  to 
est  disorder,  her  eyes 


L    TABLE." 


ed  cries  which  might 


The  only  brave  one  of  the  party  seemed  to  be  the  maid,  Helen, 
who  was  pursuing  a  tiny  white  object  gliding  along  at  the  other  side 
of  the  hall,  and  which  she  was  trying  to  belabor  with  an  umbrella.  But 
her  efforts  were  in  vain  ;  she  could  not  hit  it,  it  slipped  away  and  disap- 
peared through  a  narrow  opening  in  the  door  of  the  butler's  pantry. 

"  What  is  it — what  is  the  matter?  Lucille,  darling,  are  you 
hurt  ? "  cried  Madam  Ainsworth  half-way  down-stairs. 

"  The  mice,  the  white  mice,"  shrieked  Lucille.  "  They  're  in  the 
hall,  they  're  running  all  over  the  floor.     Oh,  oh,  I  'm  so  afraid!" 

^'  Les  souris,  les petites  souris,  elles  sont partout"  dAAeA  Mademoi- 
selle hysterically,  as  she  drew  her  skirts  closer  around  her. 

"Where  are  they?  Oh,  where  are  they?  Are  they  running  up 
the  table  legs  ?  "  cried  Lucille,  fairly  dancing  with  terror. 

"  Sont-elles  sous  la  chaise?  "  gasped  Mademoiselle. 

"  They  're  gone,"  cried  the  victorious  Helen,  flourishing  the  um- 
brella.    "  They  ran  into  the  butler's  pantry." 

"  Shut  the  door  quickly  before  they  get  out,"  called  Madam  Ains- 
worth, as  she  rush  'o  Lucille  and  clasped  her  nervously.  "  My 
dear,  my  darling:  ,  fMi,  you  are  faint!  Run  and  get  my  vinaigrette. 
Quick!  quick!  fetch  some  water;  the  poor  child  is  unconscious,"  cried 
the  old  lady,  as  Lucille — furs,  feathers,  and  all — tumbled,  a  limp  bun- 
dle, into  her  grandmama's  arms. 

Yes,  the  poor  doll  had  really  fainted ;  after  all,  she  was  a  frail 
little  creature.  There  was  a  terrible  commotion ;  she  was  laid,  pale 
and  crumpled,  on  the  drawing-room  sofa ;  and  the  coachman,  who  was 
at  the  door,  was  despatched  for  the  doctor. 

Philip,  not  dreaming  of  such  a  tragic  ending  to  his  little  comedy, 
felt  as  guilty  as  an  assassin,  as  he  stuffed  a  small  white  object  into  his 
pocket  and  hurriedly  wound  up  a  long  black  thread. 

He  was  terribly  frightened  at  the  result  of  his  effort  to  get  even 
with  Lucille.     He  felt  that  he  had  surpassed  himself,  and  without 


f/- 


i 


126 


TOINETTES   PHILIP 


waiting  to  know  the  awful  consequences  of  his  practical  joke, 
scuttled  away  to  his  room,  where  he  threw  himself  on  his  bed  laugh- 
ing and  crying  at  the  same  time. 

When  the  little  heiress  had  somewhat  recovered, — which  was 
very  soon,  and  long  before  the  doctor  arrived, —  Bassett  walked 
gravely  into  the  drawing-room,  his  face  as  placid  and  impenetrable  as 
a  mask,  and  calmly  asked  what  had  happened. 

"  Why,  they  went  into  your  pantry,  Bassett,"  said  Madam  Ains- 
worth,  excitedly.  She  was  kneeling  by  the  sofa  rubbing  the  thin 
hands  of  the  child,  who  had  revived  very  suddenly  from  her  uncon- 
scious condition,  and  was  sitting  up  sipping  a  cordial  from  a  tiny 
glass. 

"What,  Madam?  What  went  into  my  pantry?"  asked  Bassett, 
rubbing  his  hands,  with  a  puzzled  expression. 

"Why,  the  mice.  Helen  saw  them  run  in  there,  and  you  must 
have  seen  them." 

"  I  did  n't  see  nothing  in  my  pantry,  an'  I  've  just  come  from  there. 
If  you  '11  allow  me  to  say  it,  madam,  there  's  some  mistake." 

"What!  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  they  did  n't  go  in  there— 
that  boy's  white  mice,  that  he  turned  loose  into  the  hall  on  purpose 
to  frighten  Miss  Van  Norcom?" 

"  Bless  me!  no.  Madam.  Master  Philip's  white  mice  never  put  a 
foot  in  my  pantry." 

"  I  saw  them,  or  I  'm  sure  I  saw  one/  perhaps  it  was  only  one," 
said  Helen,  her  bright  eyes  twinkling  with  mischief 

"  I  saw  them  running  all  over  the  floor,"  declared  the  governess, 
emphatically. 

"  Oh !  I  saw  them  climbing  up  the  table-legs,"  wailed  Lucille. 

"  If  you  '11  permit  me.  Madam,  I  '11  venture  to  say  that  them  little 
hinnocent  hanimals  of  Master  Philip's  hain't  never  been  out  of  their 
'cage." 


'r- 


TOINETTE'S   PHILIP 


127 


•f  his  practical  joke, 
self  on  his  bed  laugh- 

icovered, — which  was 
^ed, —  Bassett  walked 
d  and  impenetrable  as 

t,"  said  Madam  Ains- 
ofa  rubbing  the  thin 
enly  from  her  uncon- 
i  cordial  from  a  tiny 

ntry?"  asked  Bassett, 

there,  and  you  must 

just  come  from  there, 
me  mistake." 
lid  n't  go  in  there — 
0  the  hall  on  purpose 

hite  mice  never  put  a 

aps  it  was  only  one," 

:hief 

clared  the  governess, 

5,"  wailed  Lucille. 
:o  say  that  them  little 
ver  been  out  of  their 


..  Piow  dare  you  say  such  a  thing,  Bassett?  Do  you  suppose 
that  Miss  Van  Norcom  and  the  others  are  mistaken?"  exclaimed 
Madam  Ainsworth,  sharply. 

..  By  no  means.  Madam.  If  I  may  be  allowed  to  suggest,  per- 
haps hit  was  what  is  called  han  hoptical  hillusion."  returned  the.  old 

man,  blandly.  •    1  •  r    i^ 

•<  Nonsense,  Bassett !     It  was  that  troublesome  boy  s  mischief.    It 

is  getting  unendurable." 

-Will  you  hallow  me  to  go  to  Master  Philips  room,  Madam?  It 
the  little  hanimals  are  not  there  in  their  cage,  I  '11  hadmit  that  they 
are  'id  in  my  pantry,"  and  Bassett  bowed  and  marched  out  as  gravely 

as  he  had  marched  in.  ^     ,    , ,    ,    1     r 

In  a  few  moments  he  returned  with  an  unmistakable  look  ot 
triumph  on  his  placid  face.     "  Hit  's  just  as  I  hexpected.  Madam. 
Them  little  hanimals  are  'uddled  hup  together,  sound  asleep  in  their 
cage;  and  Master  Philip  is  there 'ard  at  work  a-studyin'  of 'is  Latin. 

"  It  is  certainly  very  strange."  said  Madam  Ainsworth,  looking 
mystified;  "but  I  am  not  convinced.  You  can  go  to  your  pantry. 
Bassett;  and  when  Miss  Van  Norcom  is  better  I  will  investigate  the 

matter."  .  ,      ,.   ,         .      •    u:« 

Bassett  bowed  very  low.  and  went  out  with  a  little  spring  in  his 
step,  and  a  merry  twinkle  in  his  dull  old  eyes.  "  Bless  my  'eart."  he 
muttered  as  he  closed  the  pantry  door,  and  gave  a  long  sigh  of 
relief.  "  I  Ve  saved  the  little  pickle  this  time ;  "e  's  safe  if  my  young 
lady's  young  lady  don't  peach.  She  sees  'ow  it  is.  an'  she  's  too 
good  to  blow  on  the  pretty  little  chap,  so  I  think  'e  's  safe  to  get  out 
of  a  bad  scrape." 


'f 


Chapter  XXII 


m 

^'11  Ml 
I    III 


i!  I'in 


-r 


PHILIP    PLEADS    FOR    THE    "CHILDREN 

A  FTER  dinner  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ainsworth  and  Philip  were  alone  in 
/\  the  drawing-room.  The  doctor  came  and  spoke  lightly  of 
J.  Ik  Lucille's  ill  turn,  prescribed  a  simple  sedative,  and  went 
away  smiling  to  himself  at  Madam  Ainsworth's  highly  colored  de- 
scription of  the  dreadful  shock  his  little  patient  had  received.  She 
had  been  put  to  bed,  and  her  grandmother  would  not  leave  her  even 
to  take  her  dinner ;  and  as  mademoiselle  was  required  to  be  in  con- 
stant attendance,  there  was  no  one  at  the  table  but  the  three  who 
were  now  together  in  the  drawing-room.  Mr.  Ainsworth  was  look- 
ing troubled,  Mrs.  Ainsworth  annoyed,  and  Philip  strangely  subdued. 
The  boy's  high  spirits  had  vanished,  he  was  pale,  and  there  was  a 
suspicion  of  tears  about  his  eyes ;  he  was  trying  to  read,  but  from 
time  to  time  he  glanced  furtively  from  Mr.  to  Mrs.  Ainsworth,  who 
were  discussing  the  event  of  the  afternoon. 

"  It  is  absurd  the  way  Lucille  is  encouraged  in  her  silly  fancies," 
said  Mrs.  Ainsworth,  with  some  irritation  in  her  voice. 

"  But  it  was  not  only  Lucille,  my  dear ;  they  all  say  they  saw 
something"  returned  Mr.  Ainsworth,  warmly.  "  They  could  not  all 
be  mistaken.  They  could  not  all  be  the  victims  of  'han  hoptical 
hillusion,'  as  Bassett  says.  Helen  declares  that  she  saw  something, 
and  Helen  is  not  one  to  indulge  in  nerves." 

"  I  don't  know.  I  can't  explain  it.  I  only  know  Philip  had  noth- 
ing to  do  with  it,  nor  the  *  children,'  either,"  said  Mrs.  Ainsworth, 
decidedly.     "  I  was  in  Philip's  room  just  before  the  ou;cry,  and  the 

iiS 


TOINETTES   PHILIP 


129 


lEN" 

Philip  were  alone  in 
nd  spoke  lightly  of 
sedative,  and  went 
<  highly  colored  de- 
had  received.  She 
d  not  leave  her  even 
quired  to  be  in  con- 
2  but  the  three  who 
\insworth  was  look- 
p  strangely  subdued, 
lie,  and  there  was  a 
ig  to  read,  but  from 
/Irs.  Ainsworth,  who 

in  her  silly  fancies," 

voice. 

iy  all  say  they  saw 
"  They  could  not  all 
ms  of  'han  hoptical 

sAe  saw  something, 

low  Philip  had  noth- 

aid  Mrs.  Ainsworth, 

the  oulcry,  and  the 


little  creatures  were  asleep  in  their  cage,  just  as  Bassett  said.  It  is 
so  unreasonable  of  your  mother  to  suppose  that  Philip  would  let  the 
mice  out,  and  risk  losing  them,  just  to  frighten  Lucille. ' 

"  Mama,  may  I  go  to  my  room?"  asked  Philip,  coming  forward  for 
his  good-night  kiss. 

"  Certainly,  my  dear,  if  you  wish  to.  You  look  pale.  'Are  n't  you 
well  ?  " 

"  I  'm  well,  thank  you,  mama ;  but — but  I  'm  tired." 

"  Don't  be  unhappy,  my  dear,  about  this  foolish  affair.  I  'm  sure 
we  shall  be  able  to  convince  Madam  Ainsworth,  when  she  is  calmer, 
that  you  had  nothing  to  do  with  it." 

Philip  hesitated  a  moment,  with  an  appealing  look  at  Mrs.  Ains- 
worth, and  then  kissing  her  again,  with  much  warmth,  he  went  out 
silently. 

The  two  remained  in  deep  thought  for  some  time.  Then  Mr. 
Ainsworth  said,  with  conviction  :  "  Philip  knows  more  about  this 
than  we  think  he  does.  I  can  tell  by  his  manner  that  he  has  some- 
thing on  his  mind." 

"  My  dear,  you  are  becoming  strangely  like  your  mother,  with 
your  absurd  suspicions!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Ainsworth.  "How  could 
the  mice  be  asleep  in  their  cage  and  running  about  the  hall  at  the 
same  time  ?  I  'm  not  surprised  at  your  mother's  unreasonableness. 
She  dislikes  the  poor  boy,  and  takes  every  means  of  showing  it  by 
her  unkind  accusations.  But  for  you  to  suspect  Philip  !  You,  who 
know  how  truthful  he  is  !  " 

"  Did  he  say  he  knew  nothing  about  it?"  asked  Mr.  Ainsworth, 
cautiously. 

•'  I  did  not  ask  him.  I  would  not  hurt  him  so  much  as  to  have 
him  think  that  I  doubted  his  word.  All  he  said  was  that  the  mice 
were  not  out  of  their  cage ;  and  I  know  he  spoke  the  truth." 

"  Well,  Laura,  we  won't  discuss  it  any  more.     But  if  I  find  that 


I30 


TOINETTE  S   PHILIP 


Philip  is  keeping  anything  back,  I  shall  be  greatly  disappointed  in 
him,  for  he  's  not  the  boy  I  thought  he  was." 

"  There  is  no  reason  why  he  should  keep  anything  back,"  rejoined 
Mrs.  Ainsworth,  firmly  —  determined  to  defend  him  to  the  last.  "  He 
is  very  brave,  and  not  at  all  afraid  to  tell  the  truth.  He  is  alw;  ys 
willing  to  bear  the  consequences  of  his  little  pranks.  He  is  ne 
malicious  —  only  mischievous  —  and  where  others  would  laugh  at  i  .s 
harmless  tricks,  your  mother  treats  them  as  if  they  were  crimes.  If 
you  listen  to  your  mother,  she  will  succeed  in  turning  you  against  the 
poor  little  fellow.  Even  now,  I  think  you  have  changed  toward  him. 
He  does  not  interest  you  as  he  did." 

"Now,  my  dear,  you  are  unjust,  I  have  not  changed;  I  love 
Philip  dearly,  but  I  am  not  blind  to  his  faults,  and  I  do  think 
he  is  a  little — just  a  little — malicious  toward  Lucille.  Would  n't  it 
be  better  to  speak  to  him  gently,  and  request  him  not  to  play  any 
more  practical  jokes  on  that  nervous,  foolish  child?  Mother  is  so 
displeased,  it  will  end  in  trouble  between  us  if  it  goes  on,  and  you 
must  see  how  unpleasant  that  would  be." 

"  If  I  should  reprove  Philip,  it  would  be  treating  the  matter 
seriously;  and  it  would  be  equivalent  to  admitting  that  I  doubted 
his  word.  It  would  be  a  repetition  of  the  dancing-school  affair,  and 
I  am  not  disposed  to  make  mountains  out  of  mole-hills.  The  only 
thing  for  us  to  do  is  to  take  the  boy  away  as  soon  as  possible. 
We  can  never  be  happy  here  with  him  ;  your  mother's  dislike  to 
him  is  unaccountable."  And  Mrs.  Ainsworth  got  up  and  paced  the 
floor,  flushed  and  indignant. 

"  Don't  excite  yourself,  Laura  dear,"  said  Mr.  Ainsworth ;  "  as 
soon  as  we  hear  that  the  priest  is  back  we  will  start  forj  New 
Orleans,  and  we  may  learn  something  from  him  about  the  boy  that 
will  relieve  us  of  all  responsibility." 

Mrs.  Ainsworth  said  no  more,  but  she  felt  very  dissatisfied  and 
unhappy.     Already  her  assumed  duties  were  pressing  rather  heavily 


♦  ' 


1*^ 

^h 


TOINETTE  S    PHILIP 


I3» 


reatly  disappointed  i 


in 


ything  back,"  rejoined 
d  iiim  to  the  last.  "  He 
truth.     He  is  alu;  ys 

pranks.     He  is  ne 
ers  would  laugh  at  i  .s 

they  were  crimes.  If 
urning^^«  against  the 
2  changed  toward  him. 

not  changed;  I  love 
aults,  and   I  do  think 

Lucille.  Would  n't  it 
it  him  not  to  play  any 

child?  Mother  is  so 
if  it  goes  on,  and  you 

e  treating  the  matter 
Tiitting  that  I  doubted 
ncing-school  affair,  and 
■  mole-hills.  The  only 
y  as  soon  as  possible. 
Dur  mother's  dislike  to 
k  got  up  and  paced  the 

d  Mr.  Ainsworth ;  "as 
we  will  start  forj  New 
lim  about  the  boy  that 

;lt  very  dissatisfied  and 
pressing  rather  heavily 


upon  her,  and  for  the  first  time  she  regretted  that  they  had  been 
so  hasty — that  they  had  not  considered  more  seriously  the  impor- 
tance of  the  step  they  had  taken. 

The  next  morning,  quite  early.  Madam  Ainsworth  heard  a  timid 
ki  ock  at  her  door ;  and  on  opening  it  she  was  surprised  to  see 
'  ilip  standing  there  very  pale  but  very  resolute.  It  was  the  first 
I.  .le  that  he  had  intruded  upon  the  privacy  of  her  apartment,  and 
she  felt  that  the  visit  betokened  something  of  importance. 

The  boy's  blue  eyes  were  timid  and  appealing,  although  his  lips 
were  firm,  his  shoulders  erect,  and  his  manly  little  figure  full  of 
courage.  "  If  you  please.  Madam,  may  I  come  in  ?  I  want  to  tell 
you  something,"  he  said  in  a  very  gentle,  subdued  voice. 

•'  Certainly,  come  in,"  replied  Madam  Ainsworth,  coldly.  "  I  'm 
very  busy  this  morning,  but  I  will  listen  to  what  you  have  to  say"; 
and  she  seated  herself  with  dignity  at  her  writing-table,  and  began 
opening  her  letters  with  a  business-like  air. 

"  I  want  to  tell  you  about  yesterday,"  said  Philip,  his  face  crimson- 
ing and  his  lips  quivering.  "It  would  n't  be  right  not  to  tell  you. 
I  would  have  told  last  night  only  for  Mr.  Butler.  I  don't  want  you 
to  blame  him ;  he  was  n't  to  blame,  he  did  n't  know  about  it.  I  hid 
behind  his  pantry  door,  when  he  was  out.  He  did  n't  even  help  me, 
make  ///  he  never  saw  it.  You  won't  blame  him,  will  you  ? "  and 
Philip  looked  imploringly^into  the  severe  face  before  him. 

"  Oh,  Bassett  was  not  an  accomplice,  then  ?  "  said  Madam  Ains- 
worth, a  touch  of  sarcasm  in  her  voice. 

"  He  did  n't  know  until  after  it  was  done.  But  he  said  he  would 
stand  by  me.  I  don't  mind  for  myself.  You  can  punish  me  good. 
But  poor  Mr.  Butler  Bassett — I  like  him,  and  I  don't  want  him 
punished." 

"  Oh !  I  see  ;  you  are  great  friends,"  said  the  old  lady,  grimly. 
"  Well,  go  on  with  your  interesting  developments.  I  don't  in  the 
least  understand  what  contemptible  tricks  you  were  up  to." 


* 


♦  « 


r- 


132 


TOINETTE  S    PHILIP 


Philip  winced  a  little  ;  but  he  pulled  himself  together,  determined 
to  tell  the  whole  truth.  "  Why,  you  see,  Lucille  was  so  cross  to  me 
that  I  wanted  —  I  wanted  to  pay  her  off.  I  wanted  to  frighten  her. 
But  I  did  n't  want  to  make  her  ill.  I  would  n't  hurt  her  for  the 
world.  I  would  n't  hurt  any  girl,  even  if  she  did  —  even  if  she  did 
curl  her  lip  at  me.  So  I  just  thought  it  would  be  fun  to  make  some- 
thing like  a  mouse  run  across  the  floor." 

"  Then  there  was  something ! "  exclaimed  Madam  Ainsworth, 
triumphantly. 

"  Yes,  there  was.  They  did  see  something ;  but  it  was  n't  one  of 
the  'children.'" 

"  What  was  it?"  asked  the  old  lady,  impatiently. 

"  Why,  it  was  a  mouse ;  but  not  a  live  mouse.  I  made  it  out  of 
wool,  and  put  on  a  little  tail  of  tape,  and  the  two  eyes  were  jet  beads 
off  of  Mademoiselle's  fringe.  I  tied  a  long  black  thread  to  it,  and 
put  it  in  the  hall  just  where  Lucille  would  see  it  when  she  came  in ; 
and  I  made  it  jump  quickly,  by  jerking  the  thread  ;  and  when  I  had 
frightened  them  well,  I  pulled  it  into  the  pantry.  Helen  tried  to  kill 
it  with  the  umbrella ;  but  she  could  n't  get  a  lick  at  it.  Then  Lucille 
fainted,  and  Mr.  Butler  came  in  and  told  me  to  run  up  the  back 
stairs.  So  you  see  that  was  why  I  said  it  was  n't  one  of  the  'children.'" 
And  Philip  drew  a  long  breath  of  relief,  now  that  he  had  unburdened 
his  conscience,  and  waited  timidly  for  the  result  of  his  confession. 

"  Really,  really  I  What —  what  deception! — what  falsehood !"  ex- 
claimed Madam  Ainsworth,  angrily.  "And  Edward  has  boasted  of 
the  boy's  truthfulness ! " 

"  It  was  n't  a  falsehood,"  returned  Philip,  proudly.  "  I  never  tell 
lies.  It  was  only  a  —  a  mistake.  It  was  because  I  went  in  Mr.  But- 
ler's pantry,  and  I  did  n't  want  him  blamed.  That  's  why  I  did  n't 
tell  at  first.  I  *m  very  sorry  now  that  I  did  it.  I  'm  very  sorry  that 
it  made  Lucille  ill.     And  I  came  to  ask  you  to  forgive  me." 

"  Forgive  you !     Indeed,  I  shall  do  nothing  of  the  kind.     I  shall  I 


■  together,  determined 
lie  was  so  cross  to  nie 
anted  to  frighten  iicr. 
[  n't  hurt  her  for  the 
did  —  even  if  she  tliil 
be  fun  to  make  some- 

\   Madam  Ainsvvorth, 

;  but  it  was  n't  one  of 

iently. 

3use.  1  made  it  out  of 
wo  eyes  were  jet  beads 
black  thread  to  it,  and 
2  it  when  she  came  in ; 
iread  ;  and  when  I  had 
ry.  Helen  tried  to  kill 
lick  at  it.  Then  Lucille 
ne  to  run  up  the  back 
I't  one  of  the  'children.'" 
that  he  had  unburdened 
ult  of  his  confession. 
I what  falsehood!"  ex- 
Edward  has  boasted  of 

proudly.  "  I  never  tell 
ause  I  went  in  Mr.  But- 
That  's  why  I  did  n't 
it.  I  'm  very  sorry  that 
to  forgive  me." 
ing  of  the  kind.     I  shall 


/~ 


i' 


TOINETTES    PHILIP 


135 


insist  on  your  being  punished  severely.     You  must  be  taught  that 
;,r  can't  trifle   in   this  way  with   me,"   said   Madam  Amsworth. 

'""^i^Wet^i  don't  mind,"  replied  Philip,  bravely.     '<  You  can  punish 
me     Only  please  don't  blame  Mr.  Butler." 

'  I  Shan  setde  with  Bassett  at  my  leisure.     And  I  shall  order  h.m 
to  take  those  nasty  litde  vermin  out  of  the  house  inimediately. 

'what  vermin?    You  don't  mean  P^re  Josef 's  <  children.' do  you? 
asked  Philip,  in  a  horrified  voice.     "They  're  not  vermin      They  re 
iust  as  good  and  quiet-and  they  're  neat,  too !    I  keep  their  cage  as 
lean  as  can  be.     Oh.  you  don't  mean  that  they  must  go  ? 

-  I  certainly  do.  I  have  had  enough  trouble  since  you  brought 
the  horrid  little  things  here.  1  shall  give  the  order  to  have  them 
taken  away  at  once.  I  don't  care  what  becomes  of  them.  And 
Madam  linsworth  turned  toward  her  table  as  if  she  had  settled  the 

"^'"  Oh'^Mtdam.  p.-ase  don't  send  them  away.  I  can't  let  them  go^ 
P^re  losef  left  them  in  my  care.  Oh.  please,  please  dont!  And 
Philip,  in  an  agony  of  entreaty,  laid  his  hand  on  Madam  Ainsworths 
arm  and  looked  into  her  face  imploringly.  .      ,      :„ 

"  It  's  no  use  to  make  a  fuss.  I  will  not  allow  them  to  stay  in 
my  house;  that  is  final.  Now  you  may  go.  I  'm  too  W  to  be 
"oubled  with  such  nonsense.-     And  the  indignant  old  lady  shook 

off  the  litde  hand  angrily.  ,        1       jr.  1  ^„nUl, 

Poor  Philip!  he  had  never  dreamed  of  such  a  dreadful  punish- 
ment;  he  was  desperately  in  earnest  now,  and  entirely  overcome  by 
fear  and  sorrow,  he  burst,  into  tears,  and  clasping  his  hands  passion- 
ately,  made  a  last,  most  pathetic  appeal. 

"They  're  so  little!  They  don't  know  any  one  but  me;  they  11 
be  afraid  of  strangers ;  they  may  starve,  they  may  get  lost,  and  they 
can't  find  their  way  home,  and  what  will  P^re  Josef  say  when  he 
sees  me  if  I  don't  bring  his  'children'  back?     I  promised  to  take 


136 


TOINETTES   PHILIP 


care  of  them,  and  I  can't  if  you  send  them  away.  I  love  them  so ; 
they  are  so  little  and  cunning,  and  they  love  me.  They  're  all  I  've 
got  to  care  for.  Don't  send  them  away  ;  please  don't !  We  're  going 
home  soon  ;  please  let  them  stay  with  me  till  we  go!  Oh,  please  do, 
and  I  '11  be  so  grateful.  I  '11  try  to  be  good ;  I  won't  tease  Lucille 
again.     I  '11  be  so  glad  if  you  '11  let  them  stay  ! " 

Suddenly  Madam  Ainsworth  started  from  her  chair  and  looked 
at  the  boy  almost  in  terror.  Something  in  his  pitiful,  pleading  voice 
pierced  her  to  the  heart.  It  was  a  note  of  childish  sorrow  that  she 
had  heard  long  ago,  and  it  softened  her  instantly.  Hot  tears  sprang 
to  her  eyes,  and  for  a  moment  she  could  not  regain  her  self-control. 
At  length  she  said,  in  a  voice  that  trembled  in  spite  of  her  effort  to 
make  it  sound  harsh  : 

"  There,  there,  child! — that  will  do.  Don't  go  on  as  if  you  were 
insane.  If  yourheart  is  so  set  on  those  horrid  litde  creatures,  keep  them, 
and  oblige  me  by  never  speaking  of  them  again.  Now  wipe  your  eyes 
and  go  to  your  room,  and  in  the  future  try  to  treat  Lucille  properly." 

"Oh,  thank  you,  thank  you!"  cried  Philip,  rapturously,  a  sudden 
smile  breaking  over  his  face,  like  a  ray  of  sunlight  in  the  midst  of 
rain.  "  I  '11  never  forget  how  good  you  are,  and  you  won't  blame 
Mr.  Buder,  will  you  ?  "  he  added,  anxiously. 

"  I  '11  consider  it,"  she  said.  "  He  deserves  to  be  reproved,  but  for 
your  sake  I  may  overlook  his  fault."  Madam  Ainsworth  had  never 
before  spoken  so  gently  to  the  boy.  At  that  moment  she  longed  to 
take  him  in  her  arms  and  hold  him  to  her  heart,  but  she  allo>/ed  him 
to  leave  the  room  without  any  further  indication  of  favor.  The  proud 
old  soul  felt  that  she  had  made  concessions  enough  for  one  day,  so 
she  resolutely  held  herself  in  check— only  thinking  as  her  eyes 
followed  the  happy  litde  fellow:  "  It  certainly  is  very  strange.  The 
boy  quite  unnerved  me.  I  really  felt  for  a  moment  as  though  he 
belonged  to  me" 


'\r- 


^y.    I  love  them  so ; 

They  're  all  I  Ve 

ion't !  We  're  going 

I  go!     Oh,  please  do, 

won't  tease  Lucille 

Iter  chair  and  looked 
litiful,  pleading  voice 
lish  sorrow  that  she 
Hot  tears  sprang 
jain  her  self-control, 
spite  of  her  effort  to 

lo  on  as  if  you  were 
creatures,  keep  them, 
Now  wipe  your  eyes 
:at  Lucille  properly." 
ipturously,  a  sudden 
ight  in  the  midst  of 
nd  you  won't  blame 

be  reproved,  but  for 
Unsworth  had  never 
jment  she  longed  to 
but  she  allo>.'ed  him 
of  favor.  The  proud 
>ugh  for  one  day,  so 
inking  as  her  eyes 

very  strange.  The 
ment  as  though  he 


Chapter  XXIII 


ANOTHER    RIVAL 


MARCH  came  and  went,  and  Mr.  Ainsworth  did  not  go  south. 
After  hearing  from  P^re  Martin  that  P6re  Josef  had  not 
returned,  and  was,  as  far  as  he  could  learn,  in  the  interior 
of  New  Mexico,  the  artist  felt  that  there  was  no  hurry,  as  a  letter 
might  not  reach  the  priest  for  months.  So  he  lingered  in  his  pleasant 
studio  until  April  grew  old,  and  verdant  young  May  took  her  place. 

Philip  was  bitterly  disappointed,  although  he  made  no  com- 
plaint. However,  it  was  more  bearable  because  P^re  Josef  was  not 
there,  and  Dea  did  not  need  him.  His  mind  was  relieved  of  its 
anxieties,  and  he  could  wait  more  patiently.  Besides,  life  to  him  was 
pleasanter  than  it  had  been  :  Madam  Ainsworth  was  less  severe  since 
the  confession,  and  at  times  almost  kind,  and  Lucille  was  less  dis- 
dainful to  him.     Still  their  relations  were  not  at  all  cordial. 

On  the  day  when  the  little  heiress  caused  such  a  commotion  by 
fainting  at  the  sight  of  a  wool  mouse,  Philip  understood  that  she  was 
noi  a  doll,  but  that  she  was  a  frail  little  girl  made  of  the  most  delicate 
and  fragile  clay,  and  as  fine  and  transparent  as  a  soap-bubble  that  a 
breath  of  wind  could  blow  away.  That  absurd  little  scene  had 
taught  him  several  important  things.  First,  that  a  little  heiress  may 
be  more  refined  and  sensitive  than  is  a  child  of  poverty,  and  that 
what  are  precious  treasures  to  the  humble  are  very  offensive  to  the 
"'igher  classes"  (quoting  from  Bassett);  that  a  little  waif  must 
never  try  to  "  get  even  "  with  a  little  aristocrat  unless  he  wants  to 
experience  serious  defeat;  that  there  are  the  proud  and  the  meek. 


«S7 


.■  1 ) 


r- 


138 


TOINETTE  S   PHILIP 


and  that  the  proud,  instead  of  the  meek,  inherit  the  earth ;  that  the 
kingdom  of  the  meek  is  not  of  this  world ;  that  a  life  of  simple,  honest 
poverty  is  very  different  from  a  life  of  wealth  and  fashion,  and  that 
among  the  worldly,  things  are  not  called  by  the  same  names,  or 
judged  by  the  same  standards,  as  they  are  among  the  children  of 
nature. 

All  these  contradictions  in  life  became  slowly  apparent  to  the 
intelligent  mind  of  the  boy.  He  had  never  thought  of  such  things 
with  Toinette  and  P^re  Josef,  but  now  living  seemed  a  very  different 
and  much  more  complicated  condition  than  it  had  then.  Philip  was 
a  child  of  nature,  but  he  was  also  something  of  a  little  philosopher ; 
he  could  see  neither  necessity  nor  reason  in  some  of  the  ceremonious 
usages  around  him.  They  amused  him  and  made  him  sad  at  the 
same  time :  such  as  Bassett  holding  open  the  door  and  bowing  so 
humbly  when  Madam  Ainsworth  entered ;  or  of  changing  the  plates 
a  dozen  times  at  dinner ;  or  of  taking  ofif  one  handsome  suit  of  clothes 
to  put  on  another  just  to  dine  in.  He  could  not  understand  why  his 
fine  slippers  were  not  just  as  good  to  wear  in  the  drawing-room  as 
were  his  patent-leather  shoes,  or  why  every  one  stood  up  until 
Madam  Ainsworth  was  seated,  nor  the  reason  of  various  other  little 
formalities  which  Mrs.  Ainsworth  told  him  indicated  good  breeding. 

He  believed  in  being  polite  to  every  one,  even  to  the  servants ; 
in  being  strictly  truthful,  obedient,  and  generous — Toinette  had 
taught  him  all  those  things ;  in  emptying  his  pockets  for  a  beggar 
where  Lucille  would  refuse  a  dime ;  of  taking  the  part  of  an  oppressed 
small  boy,  or  a  hungry,  weak  dog ;  of  feeding  any  starving  cat  in  the 
neighborhood,  and  strewing  the  window-sills  with  crumbs  for  the 
freezing  sparrows ;  of  taking  off  his  hat  when  he  spoke  to  a  woman  ; 
of  offering  his  seat  promptly  to  any  one  who  stood  in  a  public  con- 
veyance; of  carrying  a  baby  or  a  basket  for  a  weary  mother,  or 
doing  any  kindness  prompted  by  a  noble,  sweet  nature. 


f  y**« 


TOINETTE  S   PHILIP 


139 


the  earth ;  that  the 

ife  of  simple,  honest 

nd  fashion,  and  that 

le   same  names,  or 

3ng  the  children  of 

wly  apparent  to  the 
)ught  of  such  things 
med  a  very  different 
id  then.     Philip  was 
a  litde  philosopher; 
e  of  the  ceremonious 
lade  him  sad  at  the 
door  and  bowing  so 
changing  the  plates 
dsome  suit  of  clothes 
understand  why  his 
he  drawing-room  aa 
one  stood  up   until 
)f  various  other  litde 
:ated  good  breeding, 
ven  to  the  servants ; 
rous — Toinette   had 
>ockets  for  a  beggar 
part  of  an  oppressed 
y  starving  cat  in  the 
vith  crumbs  for  the 
spoke  to  a  woman  ; 
ood  in  a  public  con- 
a  weary  mother,  or 
et  nature. 


But  it  was  not  always  right  in  this  fashionable  world  to  follow 
the  promptings  of  his  own  heart.  At  almost  every  turn  he  was 
reproved  and  repressed  for  what  appeared  to  him  a  trivial  thing ;  and 
this  moral  pruning  and  training  had  set  him  to  thinking  seriously. 
He  rebelled  secretly  against  this  hothouse  culture.  Like  the  vines 
in  his  old  sunny  garden,  he  wanted  to  climb  to  heaven  free  and 
untrammeled.  He  grew  pale  and  thoughtful,  and  began  to  look 
old  for  his  age ;  he  was  not  developing  well  under  the  influence  of 
this  over-civilization. 

When  the  trees  budded  in  May,  and  the  grass  grew  green  in 
the  park,  he  brightened  visibly.  Every  spare  moment  was  spent 
there ;  he  liked  to  get  away  by  himself  and  to  brood  in  the  green 
shadows.  He  thought  much  of  his  past,  and  he  lived  over  and  over 
the  old  days  that  now  seemed  farther  away  than  ever.  His  dis- 
appointment was  deeper  than  any  one  guessed.  He  had  trusted 
implicitly  in  Mr.  Ainsworth's  promise  to  take  him  home  in  March, 
and  the  easy  way  in  which  it  was  evaded  shook  his  confidence  for 
the  first  time. 

"How  do  I  know,"  he  thought,  " that  they  will  ever  take  me 
back  ?  Perhaps  I  shall  never  see  Dea  again,  or  P^re  Josef,  and  the 
poor  'children'  may  have  to  stay  here  always."  But  after  awhile 
his  disappointment  wore  off;  the  beauties  of  the  park  consoled  him  — 
the  cool,  shady  spots,  the  sunny  slopes,  and  the  birds — yes,  these 
strange  birds  came  to  him ;  he  had  not  lost  his  power  of  wooing 
these  children  of  the  air.  They  were  unknown  to  him  by  name ;  they 
were  not  so  rich  of  plumage  nor  so  sweet  of  song  as  his  southern 
friends,  but  he  loved  them  and  welcomed  them.  Already  they  knew 
his  peculiar  whistle,  and  would  come  at  his  call,  to  fly  down  to  him 
and  hover  about  him  fearlessly. 

Often  on  sunny  afternoons  in  June,  when  Madam  Ainsworth 
•  and  Lucille  were  driving  through  the  shady  avenues  of  the  park,  they 


r- 


HO 


TOINETTE  S   PHILIP 


would  see  Philip  lying  at  full  length  under  a  tree,  his  hat  thrown 
aside,  his  hair  tangled,  his  face  flushed  and  happy,  unmindful  of  the 
throng  of  human  beings  who  might  pause  to  gaze  at  him  as  he  watched 
his  feathered  friends  flutter  and  circle  about  him. 

"  I  think  the  boy  must  have  gipsy  blood  in  him ;  just  see  how 
uncivilized  he  looks!"  Madam  Ainsworth  would  exclaim  indignantly. 


<<  HE    LIKED    TO    BROOD    IN    THE    GREEN    SHADOWS." 

"  I  hope  he  won't  see  us  and  recognize  us  before  all  these  people," 
Lucille  would  say,  as  she  turned  her  haughty  little  head  in  another 
direction,  and  shrugged  her  shoulders  disdainfully. 

There  was  no  danger  of  his  recognizing  them.  Philip  saw  noth- 
ing but  his  blue  sky,  his  birds,  and  his  green  trees ;  or  perhaps  his 
thoughts  were  hundreds  of  miles  away.     Again  he  was  Toinette's 


tin. 


'r- 


TOINETTE  S   PHILIP 


141 


Itree,  his  hat  thrown 
Ipy,  unmindful  of  the 
I  at  him  as  he  watched 

him;  just  see  how 
exclaim  indignantly. 


DOWS." 


3re  all  these  people," 
ittle  head  in  another 

ly- 

m.  Philip  saw  noth- 
-ees ;  or  perhaps  his 
1  he  was  Toinette's 


Philip,  setting  out  pansies  in  the  old  garden,  while  the  Major  and  the 
Singer  fluttered  around  him ;  or  he  was  kneelir.g  in  the  little  chapel 
near  the  shrine  of  St.  Roch,  with  Dea  beside  him,  in  the  sweet  rosy 
lifjht,  while  she  whispered  her  simple  prayer:  "  Good  St.  Roch,  hear 
us ;  good  St.  Roch,  pray  for  us !  " 

Sometimes  he  would  hide  his  face  in  the  grass,  and  shed  a  few 
silent  tears  because  those  dear  places  were  so  far  away  that  there  was 
nothing  left  him  but  the  memory  of  them. 

Early  in  July,  Mrs.  Van  Norcom  returned  from  abroad,  and  took 
the  little  heiress  and  her  attendants  away  with  her  to  Newport. 
Shortly  after  Madam  Ainsworth  followed,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ainsworth 
and  Philip  were  left  alone  in  the  great,  silent  house.  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Ainsworth  did  not  intend  to  neglect  their  adopted  son,  but  Mrs.  Ains- 
worth was  not  well,  and  was  confined  the  most  of  the  time  to  her 
room,  and  Mr.  Ainsworth  spent  his  leisure  hours  in  his  wife's  com- 
pany, for  her  indisposition  forced  them  to  remain  in  the  city.  And 
this  was  another  disappointment  to  Philip,  who  hoped  again  to  see 
the  forests  and  mountains  where  he  had  passed  the  previous  summer. 

However,  he  had  the  "children,"  the  park,  his  drawing,  and  his 
books,  although  he  was  not  so  fond  of  the  latter  as  he  should  have 
been.  The  tutor  whom  he  had  during  the  winter  said  his  pupil  was 
very  intelligent  and  obedient,  but  he  did  not  like  to  study,  he  did 
not  like  Latin  and  mathematics.  The  tutor  feared  Philip  would 
always  be  deficient  in  those  useful  branches  of  learning. 

Nature  was  Philip's  favorite  book,  and  art  and  poetry  the  mental 
food  be  preferred ;  dry  and  abstruse  studies  wearied  and  disheartened 
him,  and  he  was  glad  when  his  tutor  went  away  for  the  summer,  and 
left  him  free  to  spend  his  days  as  he  pleased. 

Sometimes  he  would  smuggle  the. "  children  "  out  for  a  holiday, 
and  the  genuine  pleasure  he  took  in  displaying  their  accomplish- 
ments to  all  the  little  ragamuffins  in  the  park  fully  repaid  him  for  the 


142 


TOINETTES    PHILIP 


risk  he  ran.  Mr.  Ainsworth  had  objected  to  his  taking  them  out; 
he  did  not  like  to  see  the  boy  surrounded  by  a  crowd  of  gamins, 
exhibiting  his  white  mice. 

"  He  looks  like  a  little  vagrant,"  he  would  say  discontentedly  to 
his  wife.  "When  he  is  with  that  class  of  children  he  seems  to 
become  one  of  them.  It  is  astonishing  how  many  such  traits  de- 
velop in  him  from  day  to  day.  Sometimes  I  am  afraid  that  he 
is  deteriorating." 

*'  He  is  growing  older,"  Mrs.  Ainsworth  would  return  with  a  sigh. 
"  The  charm  of  infancy  is  gone,  and  he  is  in  the  transition  state 
between  child  and  boy, — hardly  an  interesting  age ;  but  in  spite  of 
his  little  faults,  he  has  a  beautiful  nature.  I  hope  we  shall  be  able 
to  do  our  duty  by  him,  but  sometimes  I  have  serious  misgivings. 
I  am  doubtful  about  the  wisdom  of  trying  to  substitute  a  strange 
child  in  the  place  of  one's  own  flesh  and  blood." 

"  Well,  it 's  too  late  to  think  of  that  now,  Laura.  It  seemed  best 
when  we  did  it,  and  we  must  not  shirk  the  responsibility.  We  can't 
always  control  our  feelings,  but  we  can  always  do  right."  And  so 
the  conversation  ended  without  the  satisfaction  that  they  had  come 
to  any  decision  on  a  subject  that  was  more  or  less  troublesome. 

Early  in  September,  another  rival  came  to  take  the  place  of 
Lucille,  and  in  many  respects  a  more  formidable  one  than  the  little 
heiress.  Mrs.  Ainsworth  had  a  fine  little  boy;  he  was  named 
Edward  for  his  father,  and  his  appearance  was  hailed  with  great  joy. 
Madam  Ainsworth  hurried  from  Newport.  An  elderly  French  nurse 
was  engaged,  and  the  little  stranger  was  installed  in  Lucille's  apart- 
ment with  all  the  ceremony  due  to  an  heir  of  the  Ainsworths. 

When  Philip  first  saw  the  child,  he  turned  quite  pale,  and  his 
eyes  were  wet  with  tears  as  he  stooped  and  kissed  the  pink  cheeks 
tenderly,  and  said,  with  a  smile,  "  He  's  very  small,  but  I  'm  sure 
I  shall  love  him,  and  I  mean  to  take  care  of  him  when  he  is  older." 


^n 


TOINETTES   PHILIP 


«43 


[is  taking  them  out; 
a  crowd  of  gamins, 

Uy  discontentedly  to 
lildren  he  seems  to 
lany  such  traits  de- 
am   afraid   that  he 

Id  return  with  a  sigh. 

the  transition  state 
age ;  but  in  spite  of 
ope  we  shall  be  able 

serious  misgivings, 
substitute  a  strange 

Jra.     It  seemed  best 
Jnsibility.     We  can't 
do  right."     And  so 
that  they  had  come 
ss  troublesome. 
0  take  the  place  of 
e  one  than  the  little 
3y;    he  was   named 
ailed  with  great  joy. 
ilderly  French  nurse 
d  in  Lucille's  apart- 
Ainsworths. 
quite  pale,  and  his 
ied  the  pink  cheeks 
mall,  but  I  'm  sure 
when  he  is  older." 


Mrs.  Ainsworth  had  dreaded  the  ordeal  of  the  first  meeting. 
She  feared  Philip  might  show  some  jealousy,  but  the  sweet  manner 
of  the  boy  quite  satisfied  her  and  made  her  very  happy. 

When  Bassett  spoke  of  Philip's  nose  being  out  of  joint,  the  boy 
laughed,  and  rubbing  his  finger  over  that  small  feature  declared  that 
it  was  as  ^raight  as  ever.  "  I  guess  there  's  room  enough  for  both 
of  us  in  this  big  house,  and  it  '11  be  jolly  by  and  by,  when  he  can  run 
about  and  play  with  Pfere  Josef's  'children.'  I  '11  bet  he  won't  scream 
when  he  sees  them." 

Madam  Ainsworth  was  as  fussily  fond  of  the  new-comer  as  she 
was  of  Lucille.  It  had  been  a  great  sorrow  to  her  that  there  was  no 
one  of  the  blood  to  inherit  the  name  as  well  as  the  money.  She 
could  not  bear  to  think  that  the  little  waif  would  be  the  only  Ains- 
worth in  the  future ;  that  a  boy  she  could  never  love  would  be  her 
only  grandson.  This  child  had  come  to  make  her  last  days  happy 
and  peaceful,  and  a  little  prince  was  never  received  with  greater 
rejoicing  than  was  the  tiny  pink  being  who,  watched  with  loving 
care,  lay  sleeping  in  his  lace-trimmed  cradle. 

Philip  heard  and  saw  all  these  demonstrations  of  satisfaction 
unmoved.  It  is  true  his  blue  eyes  grew  deeper  and  more  serious, 
while  his  face  thinned  and  paled  daily.  When  the  autumn  winds 
blew  rough  and  piercing  he  complained  of  the  cold,  and  Bassett 
noticed  that  he  had  a  harsh  little  cough,  but  nobody  else  noticed  it. 
The  old  butler  gave  him  hoarhound  drops,  but  Philip  handed  them 
over  to  the  first  small  beggar  he  met,  while  he  drew  his  thick  little 
ulster  closer  around  him,  glad  that  winter  had  come,  for  this  winter 
they  would  surely  take  him  home.  Mrs.  Ainsworth's  lungs  were 
delicate,  and  already  they  were  talking  of  going  south  toward  spring. 
"  It  must  be  soon  now,"  Philip  said  to  himself,  as  he  counted  away 
the  weeks,  hoping  and  waiting  cheerfully. 


\ 


\'n 


Jlll' 


Chapter  XXIV 


A   JOYFUL    MEETING 


ONE  day  in  January,  Madam  Ainsworth  came  down-stairs 
wrapped  in  furs  from  head  to  foot.  She  was  going  out 
for  an  airing,  and  as  she  stepped  into  the  hall  she  was 
surprised  to  see  Philip  sitting  before  the  open  fire.  He  had  drawn 
a  large  leather-covered  chair  close  to  the  fender,  while  he  leaned 
back  against  the  cushion  with  closed  eyes  and  folded  hands.  There 
was  something  touching  in  the  boy's  languid  position  and  pale,  tired 
face.  Madam  Ainsworth  thought  him  sleeping,  but  when  he  heard 
her  step,  he  started  to  his  feet,  a  little  confused  and  flushed. 

•'  Why,  Philip,"  she  said  kindly,  "  are  you  cold  that  you  get  so 
near  the  fire  ? " 

"  I   was  a  little   cold — not   very,"  he   replied,   trying   to   smile 
brightly. 

*♦  Have  you  been  out  to-day?"  she  asked,  looking  at  him  closely; 
for  the  first  time  she  noticed  how  thin  he  was. 

"  No,  Madam ;  I  have  n't  been  out.     I  had  no  lessons  to-day,  but 
I  'm  going  for  a  walk  by  and  by." 

"Would  n't  you  rather  go  for  a  drive?     Get  your  fur  coat  and 
cap,  and  come  with  me." 

It  was  not  the  first  time  during  the  winter  that  Madam  Ainsworth 
had  invited  Philip  to  drive  with  her.  Since  Mrs.  Van  Norcom  went 
away  she  had  no  one  to  drive  with  her  every  day,  and  rather  than  go 
alone  she  sometimes  took  Philip.  Mrs.  Van  Norcom  had  decided 
that  her  health  was  much  better  abroad,  and,  in  consideration  of 


M4 


TOINHTTH  S    PHILIP 


•45 


came  down-stairs 
She  was  going  out 
;o  the  hall  she  was 
ire.  He  had  drawn 
ler,  while  he  leaned 
)lded  hands.  There 
iition  and  pale,  tired 
,  but  when  he  heard 
and  flushed, 
old  that  you  get  so 

cd,    trying    to   smile 

jking  at  him  closely; 

o  lessons  to-day,  but 

:t  your  fur  coat  and 

at  Madam  Ainsworth 
3.  Van  Norcom  went 
r,  and  rather  than  go 
'Jorcom  had  decided 
in  consideration  of 


that  she  concluded  to  make  Paris  her  permanent  home ;  therefore 
she,  Lucille,  the  poodle,  the  governess,  and  Helen  had  left  New 
Vi)rk  soon  after  the  arrival  of  Mrs.  Ainsworth's  little  boy.  Madam 
Ainsworth  would  have  accompanied  them  had  it  not  been  for  her 
interest  in  her  little  grandson,  who,  after  all,  was  of  greater  impor- 
tance than  the  little  heiress. 

When  she  invited  Philip  to  go  out  with  her,  the  boy  went  rather 
indifferently  for  his  coat.  He  did  not  much  care  for  this  ceremonious 
drive.  The  park  was  very  dreary  now  :  the  trees  were  leafless,  there 
was  not  a  vestige  of  green,  and  in  all  the  shady  places  were  little 
patches  of  snow.  The  ponds  were  frozen  over,  and  his  birds  were 
gone.     They  had  flown  away  south,  where  he  longed  to  follow  them. 

As  they  drove  up  the  avenue  near  to  the  entrance  of  the  park, 
Philip's  attention  was  attracted  by  a  group  of  boys  gathered  around 
a  forlorn,  ragged  litde  negro.  The  black  mite's  back  was  turned 
toward  Philip,  his  fists  were  crammed  into  his  eyes,  and  he  was  boo- 
hooing  loudly.  There  had  been  a  fight,  and  evidently  the  little  raga- 
muffin had  had  the  worst  of  it.  Philip  was  interested  instantly,  and 
turned  to  stare  at  the  group.  Suddenly  he  started  to  his  feet  and 
almost  shouted : 

"  It  is — it  is  Lilybel !  Thomas,"  he  cried,  seizing  the  colored 
coachman  by  the  arm,  "stop,  and  let  me  get  out!  It  's  Lilybel,  and 
those  boys  are  ill-treating  him.     Stop,  and  let  me  go,  quick  !  " 

Thomas  drew  up  his  horses  shortly  at  the  imperative  command, 
and  without  a  word  to  Madam  Ainsworth,  Philip  sprang  out  of  the 
carriage,  and  rushed  into  the  group  of  boys. 

The  old  lady  did  not  know  what  had  happened  until,  almost 
overcome  with  surprise  and  mortification,  she  saw  the  boy  push 
through  the  throng,  who  scattered  right  and  left,  and  clasp — yes, 
actually  clasp — the  hands  of  the  worst-looking  specimen  of  colored 
humanity  that  she  had  ever  seen. 


^^Bf^ 


146 


TOINETTES   PHILIP 


ill 


ii'i 
iiii! 


Thomas,  with  a  knowing  grin,  turned,  and,  touching  h.s  hat.j 
looked  at  his  mistress  interrogatively.  ,     .  ., 

..  Yes."  she  said,  faintly.  "  go  on  quickly  ;  the  boy  must  be  msanc. 
When  the  group  of  rough-looking  gamins  saw  the  handso.ne.j 
well-dressed  boy  spring  from  the  fine  carriage  and  hurry  toward  them. 
they  scattered  instantly,  and  left  Philip  and  Lilybel  the  center  of  a| 
crowd  of  curious  spectators.  , 

At  first  the  little  negro  did  not  recognize  Philip,  who  almost  I 
deluged  him  with  a  stream  of  questions.     "Where  did  you  come 
from?     How  did  you  get  here?     When  did  you  come?     Is  Sehne 
with  you?"  and  the  like,  to  which  Lilybel  replied,  still  whimpering 

and  rubbing  his  eyes :  ,    .   ,  , 

..  Is  -t  you.  Mars  Philip?    My,  my !     I  did  n't  know  t  war  you- 
an-  a  coat  on  like  a  b'ar!    I  's  done  been  a-huntin  evrywhar  fer  ycr; 
an'  what  good  clo'es  yer  got! "    And  Lilybel  looked  at  his  old  friend 
admiringly,  while  he  shivered  as  much  from  his  joy  and  excitement 

as  from  the  cold.  .  ..t  n 

..  How  did  you  get  here?"  repeated  Philip,  excitedly.   "Tell  me 

how  vou  came  here." 

«  I  done  cum  in  one  o'  dem  big  steamboats.  My  ma  she  gwine 
ter  whip  me  good  'ca'se-'ca'se  I  los'  her  money.  I  jes  tuk  it  ter  go 
ter  er  cirkus  an'  buy  some  ging-pop.  an'  my  ma  she  war  awfu 
mad;  she  say  she  war  gwine  ter  whip  me  till  I  could  n t  stan  so  1 
jes'  run  erway  an'  hid  on  one  of  dem  bustin'  big  steamboats ;  an  I  was 
sick- 1  was  awful  sick."  And  Lilybel  sniffed  again  at  the  thought 
of  the  miseries  of  his  voluntary  sea-voyage. 

«.  Oh,  Lilybel,  you  did  wrong  to  run  away,"  said  Philip,  reprov- 
ingly.    "What  will  poor  Seline  do?"  ,.      ,  •  ,     t  - 

.«  My  ma?    I  s'pects  she  's  glad  'ca'se  I  's  dade;  she  thinks  1  s 
dade,  'ca'se  I  frowed  my  jacket  an*  hat  inter  der  ruver,  so  she  d  think 

I  's  drownded."  .  ., ,. 

-  Why,  Lilybel.  how  wicked!     I  'm  sorry  you  were  so  wicked. 


M\ 


nd,  touching  his  hat,| 

:  boy  must  be  insane. " 
ks  saw  the  handsome,  I 
nd  hurry  toward  them,  I 
.ilybel  the  center  of  a 

ze  Philip,  who  almost! 
Where  did  you  come 
you  come?     Is  Sdine 
plied,  still  whimpering 

n't  know  't  war  you— 
ntin'  ev'rywhar  fer  yer; 
ooked  at  his  old  friend 
his  joy  and  excitement 

p,  excitedly.   "Tell  me 

ts.  My  ma  she  gwine 
ley.  I  jes'  tuk  it  ter  go 
my  ma  she  war  awful 
11  I  could  n't  Stan',  so  I 
g  steamboats ;  an'  I  was 
;d  again  at  the  thought 

ly,"  said  Philip,  reprov- 

s  dade ;  she  thinks  I  's 
ler  ruver,  so  she  'd  think 

r  you  were  so  wicked," 


■■■*¥,:  ^ 


TOINETTE  S   PHILIP 


149 


cried  Philip,  greatly  shocked  at  the  depravity  of  his  friend.     "  But 
when  was  that  ?     How  long  ago  ?     Tell  me  all  about  it." 

"  Oh,  it  war  las'  fall.  I  's  be'n  yer'^  more  'n  a  year,  an'  I  's  be'n 
lookin'  fer  yer  all  der  time." 

"  Where  have  you  been  living  ever  since  ?  "  questioned  Philip. 

"  Over  dar,"  pointing  toward  the  east  side,  "with  a  colored  lady 
what  keeps  a  boardin'-house ;  an'  she  's  awful  mean.  She  whip  me 
good  'ca'se  I  pick  up  some  money  on  der  floor  an'  did  n't  guv  it  ter 
her.  I  foun'  it,  I  did ;  an'  it  war  mine.  She  whip  me,  an'  war 
er-gwine  ter  send  fer  a  bobby,  so  I  run  erway,  an'  I 's  be'n  er-lookin' 
fer  yer,  Mars'  Philip." 

"  Dear  me !  what  a  hard  time  you  've  had,  Lilybel,"  said  Philip, 
sympathetically;  "  but  the  money  was  n't  yours  because  you  found  it." 

"  Yes,  it  war.  Mars'  Philip.     I  foun'  it ;  I  did  n't  stole  it.." 
Philip  felt  that  it  was  useless  to  try  to  make  Lilybel  understand 
the  difference  between  meum  and  tuum  ;  so,  looking  pityingly  at  his 
fluttering  rags  and  broken  shoes,  he  said: 

"Well,  come  home  with  me.    I  '11  ask  my  mama  to  give  you  some 

clothes.   Don't  cry  any  more ;  I  '11  take  care  of  you.  Come  on  with  me." 

And  Philip,  hailing  a  passing  car,  ushered  Lilybel  into  it,  and 

got  in  himself,  as  proudly  as  though  his  companion  were  dressed  'in 

purple  and  fine  linen. 

An  hour  after,  Philip,  all  energy  and  animation,  rushed  into 
Mrs.  Ainsworth's  room  without  even   the   ceremony  of  knocking. 

"  Oh,  Mama,"  he  cried,  joyfully,  "  Lilybel  is  here  !  " 

"  Who  is  Lilybel  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Ainsworth,  surprised  and  puzzled. 
She  had  quite  forgotten  the  name  of  the  droll  little  darky  who  had 
brought  the  basket  when  Philip  came  to  stay  with  them. 

"Why,  Mama,  don't  you  remember  Seline's  Lilybel?"  demanded 
Philip,  in  a  hurt  voice. 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  remember  now ;  the  little  colored  boy  in  New 
Orleans." 


h 


ttf 


I50 


TOINETTES   PHILIP 


"  Yes,  that 's  the  one ;  he 's  here,  and  he  has  n't  any  clothes ;  he  's 
ragged  and  cold.  I  found  him  in  the  street ;  he  ran  away  and  came 
here  on  a  steamer,  and  he  's  been  looking  for  me.  Some  boys  were 
fighting  him  because  he  had  n't  any  one  to  take  his  part ;  they  hit 
him  after  he  was  down.  Don't  you  call  it  mean  to  hit  a  fellow 
after  he  's  down  ?  But  when  they  saw  me  they  ran  away  like 
cowards.     If  they  had  n't,  I  would  have  paid  them  off." 

"  Oh,  Philip!  would  you  engage  in  a  street  fight?"  asked  Mrs. 
Ainsworih,  with  some  disgust  in  her  voice. 

"  Yes,  Mama,  I  would,  if  I  saw  any  boy,  especially  Lilybel,  im- 
posed upon.  But  say.  Mama,  may  I  give  Lilybel  some  of  my  clothes 
—  I  've  got  so  many;  and  may  I  ask  Mr.  Butler  to  give  him  some 
dinner;  and  can  he  stay  here?" 

"  Stay  here,  Philip ;  why,  that  is  impossible !  We  have  nowhere  to 
put  him,  and  even  if  we  had,  we  would  have  to  get  Madam  Ains- 
worth's  permission  first." 

"  But  he  can  go  in  the  stable  with  Thomas.  If  I  ask  Thomas  he 
will  take  care  of  him." 

Mrs.  Ainsworth  looked  distressed.  "  Really,  my  dear,  I  don't 
know  what  to  say  until  I  ask  your  papa.  You  can  give  the  boy  the 
brown  suit  you  wore  last  winter,  and  you  may  ask  Bassett  for  some 
food  for  him,  but  as  to  his  staying  here,  I  can't  give  you  an  answer 
now.     However,  you  can  take  him  to  the  stable  for  the  present." 

Philip  went  off  joyfully  to  search  his  wardrobe,  and  before  an- 
other hour,  Lilybel  was  transformed  into  a  respectable-looking  boy ; 
and  Thomas  had  consented  to  allow  him  to  share  his  quarters,  if 
Madam.  Ainsworth  made  ao  objections. 

That  evening  there  was  a  sound  of  revelry  in  the  stable.  Philip 
disappeared  directly  after  dinner,  and  Bassett  was  seen  to  slip  out  the 
back  way  with  something  in  a  basket  covered  with  a  napkin.  Lilybel 
was  in  clover,  and  Philip  was  happier  than  he  had  been  for  a  long  time. 


II 


i^ 


I't  any  clothes ;  he  's 

ran  away  and  came 

Some  boys  were 

his  part ;  they  hit 

:an  to  hit  a  fellow 

they  ran  away  like 

Ithem  off." 

fight?"  asked  Mrs. 

>ecially  Lilybel,  im- 

some  of  my  clothes 

ir  to  give  him  some 

Ve  have  nowhere  to 
3  get  Madam  Ains- 

If  I  ask  Thomas  he 

y,  my  dear,  I  don't 
an  give  the  boy  the 
sk  Bassett  for  some 
give  you  an  answer 
for  the  present." 
abe,  and  before  an- 
ctable-looking  boy ; 
are  his  quarters,  if 

I  the  stable.     Philip 

seen  to  slip  out  the 

a  napkin.    Lilybel 

>een  for  a  long  time. 


Chapter  XXV 

A    CRISIS 

MADAM  AiNSWORTH  did  not  consent,  neither  did  she  positively 
refuse  to  allow  Lilybel  to  become  an  inmate  of  the 
stable.  She  simply  regarded  the  matter  as  something  be- 
neath her  consideration.  For  some  time  everything  went  on  peace- 
fully, and  Philip  was  delighted  with  the  excellent  conduct  of  his 
friend.  The  only  objectionable  feature  in  the  arrangement  was  that, 
in  spite  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ainsworth's  orders  to  the  contrary,  Philip 
spent  most  of  his  time  in  the  stable  with  his  funny  little  prot^g^  and 
the  friendly  Thomas,  whose  society  was  not  exactly  conducive  to  re- 
finement and  good  morals;  but  there  was  a  fascination  about  the 
small  rascal  that  Philip  could  not  resist.  He  did  not  intend  to  be 
disobedient,  but  almost  before  he  was  aware  of  it,  he  was  sitting  on  a 
box  in  the  feed  room,  chatting  about  his  old  home,  Dea,  and  Seline. 
Mrs.  Ainsworth,  happy  and  satisfied  in  her  new  motherhood, 
did  not  see  that  the  boy  was  starving  for  affection,  and  that  his  dis- 
taste for  his  books,  and  even  his  drawing,  his  lassitude  and  indiffer- 
ence, were  the  result  of  failing  health.  She  noticed  how  thin  and 
pale  he  was,  but  she  thought  he  was  growing  too  fast,  that  his  con- 
dition was  due  to  the  transition  period  which  she  had  spoken  of. 
And  she  was  right  in  one  way.  It  was  due  to  transition — a  transi- 
tion from  affection  and  interest  to  neglect  and  indifference,  from  his 
soft,  sunny  South  to  the  cold,  austere  North,  from  a  simple,  natural 
life  to  one  of  hothouse  culture  and  ultra-civilization.     He  was  a 

«5i 


f/~ 


i! 


152 


TOINETTES   PHILIP 


transplanted  wild  flower,  and  the  experiment  had  not  worked  well; 
he  did  not  thrive  in  the  rich  parterre  of  his  new  garden. 

One  day  Philip  asked  Ltlybel  if  he  would  like  to  go  home. 
The  little  negro  grinned  and  said:  "Yas,  Mars*  Philip."  Then  he 
added,  very  decidedly :  "  But  I  ain't  er-gwine  ter  go  t'  New  'leens  in 
no  steamboat ;  I  's  er-gwine  ter  walk'' 

"  Oh,  but  it  's  too  far  to  walk,"  returned  Philip.  •'  I  guess  it 
would  take  more  than  a  week  to  walk  there."  He  had  a  very  vague 
idea  of  the  distance. 

"  I  could  git  lots  o'  lifts  on  dem  freight-trains,"  returned  Lilybel, 
eagerly ;  "  but  I  's  'feared  ter  go  alone.  Mars'  Philip,  why  don't  yer 
run  erway  an'  go  too  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  would  n't  run  away.  I  want  to  go  awful,  but  I  would  n't 
run  away.  Besides,  there  's  no  need  of  it ;  my  papa  and  mama  are 
going  to  take  me  soon,  and  you  can  go  with  us.  I  guess  Seline  will 
be  glad  to  see  you." 

Lilybel  hung  his  head  and  grinned  an  affirmative,  although  he 
was  not  quite  sure  that  his  "ma"  would  receive  him  with  rapture. 

Shortly  after  this  conversation,  and  about  the  time  when  Philip 
thought  his  long-cherished  hopes  were  near  to  being  realized,  Mr. 
Ainsworth  was  suddenly  called  away  on  very  urgent  business  in  the 
far  West,  connected  with  a  railroad  in  which  not  only  Madam  Ains- 
worth, but  also  the  little  heiress,  had  large  interests ;  and  again  Philip 
saw  the  vision  of  his  old  home  fade  away  into  an  indefinite  future. 

About  this  time  Lilybel  struck  up  a  sudden  intimacy  with  a  boot- 
black older  than  himself  and  of  doubtful  character,  and  he  would 
have  introduced  his  new  chum  into  the  select  society  of  the  stable 
had  Thomas  allowed  him  to  do  so.  However,  Lilybel  spent  a  g^eat 
deal  of  time  with  him,  and  would  remain  away  for  days  together. 
When  he  returned  he  would  be  half  clothed,  dirty,  and  hungry. 
This  was  a  severe  tax  on  Philip's  wardrobe  as  well  as  on  his  patience ; 


.#!««'_,  >., 


TOINETTES   PHILIP 


153 


id  not  worked  well; 

'  garden. 
Id  like  to  go  home. 
y  Philip."    Then  he 
tr  go  t'  New  'leens  in 

[Philip.     •'  I  guess  it 
[e  had  a  very  vague 

IS,"  returned  Lilybel, 
Philip,  why  don't  yer 

w/u/,  but  I  would  n't 

papa  and  mama  are 

I  guess  Seline  will 

rmative,  although  he 
him  with  rapture, 
the  time  when  Philip 
3  being  realized,  Mr. 
rgent  business  in  the 
)t  only  Madam  Ains- 
ists ;  and  again  Philip 
n  indefinite  future, 
intimacy  with  a  boot- 
acter,  and  he  would 
society  of  the  stable 
Lilybel  spent  a  great 
y  for  days  together, 
dirty,  and   hungry. 
:11  as  on  his  patience ; 


but  this  was  not  the  worst.  Often,  after  these  sudden  departures,  some 
little  thing  would  be  missed  by  the  servants — a  spoon  or  fork  by  Bas- 
sett,  a  little  money  by  the  cook,  or  some  of  the  kitchen-maid's  jewelry. 

Gradually  Lilybel  had  worked  his  way  into  the  house — into  the 
kitchen,  the  pantry,  up  the  back  stairs  to  Philip's  room ;  and  one  day 
when  Madam  Ainsworth  found  him  gravely  examining  the  articles 
on  her  toilet-table,  she  said  she  could  endure  no  more.  The  visit  to 
her  room  accounted  for  the  disappearance,  some  time  before,  of  a 
valuable  ring.  The  boy  was  a  thief,  and  he  must  go,  or  she  would 
send  for  an  officer  to  arrest  him. 

Philip  was  in  a  dreadful  state  of  terror ;  the  thought  of  Lilybel  be- 
ing sent  to  prison  was  unendurable.  He  could  not  believe  his  pro- 
tege was  guilty,  but  he  took  him  aside  and  lectured  him  severely, 
gave  him  a  fresh  supply  of  clothes,  and  some  of  his  pocket-money, 
and  bade  him  go  out  and  find  a  place  where  he  could  earn  his  bread 
and  meat. 

Lilybel  promised  humbly  to  do  as  Philip  told  him,  but  in  a  week 
he  was  back,  hanging  around  the  stable  in  a  most  forlorn  condition. 
When  Philip  was  secretly  called  out  to  him,  the  little  rascal  was  snif- 
fling and  shivering  with  cold.  His  warm  jacket  was  gone,  and  he 
had  got  rid  of  his  shoes.  It  was  freezing,  and  the  little  beggar's 
bare  feet  made  Philip's  heart  ache ;  he  was  in  despair,  not  knowing 
what  to  do  with  his  troublesome  dependent.  There  was  only  one 
thing  that  he  could  think  of,  and  that  was  to  beg  the  soft-hearted 
Thomas  to  smuggle  him  into  the  stable  again,  until  he  could  find 
some  way  out  of  the  dilemma. 

"  I  's  mos'  starved,  I  is,"  was  Lilybel's  first  complaint,  when  he 
was  once  more  installed  in  the  comfortable  stable. 

"  Oh,  Lilybel,  whatafzaf  you  do  with  the  money  I  gave  you?"  said 
Philip,  in  a  discouraged  voice.  "  Why  did  n't  you  get  something  to 
eat?" 


154 


TOINETTES    PHILIP 


"I  is,  Mars'  Philip.     I  's  got  can'  peaches  an'  sardines." 

"  But  why  did  n't  you  get  bread  and  meat  ?  " 

"  'Ca'se  I  likes  can'  peaches  an'  sardines  der  bes'." 

What  could  Philip  say  to  such  reasoning  ?     Again  Bassett  wasl 

taken  into  the  boy's  confidence,  and  again  the  kind  old  soul  stood  byf 

his  little  friend,  and  secretly,  and  with  many  misgivings,  furnished  | 

food  for  the  hungry  Lilybel. 

In  the  house  nothing  more  was  heard  of  Philip's  troublesome] 
prot^g^,  and  Madam  Ainsworth  congratulated  herself  that  she  had  I 
got  rid  of  a  nuisance,  when  one  day,  as  she  approached  the  en- 
trance to  her  house,  she  was  surprised  to  see  a  crowd  of  men  and  I 
boys  around  her  steps.  Her  first  thought  was  of  fire  within  ;  but  no, 
their  attention  seemed  to  be  centered  on  something  without.  When 
Thomas  drew  up  hurriedly  before  the  door,  and  she  made  her  way 
through  the  tightly  packed  throng,  she  saw  with  horror  a  sign  on  the 
upper  step.  It  was  made  of  the  top  of  a  pasteboard  box,  and  on  it 
was  rudely  printed  wit'.i  shoe-blacking,  "  Wite  Mise  ter  sea  five  sents 
a  site."  Beside  the  si^n  was  Lilybel,  in  one  of  Philip's  best  jackets, 
and  near  him  sat  the  shoeblack  holding  the  cage  that  contained 
P^re  Josef's  children,  while  he  set  forth,  in  a  loud  voice,  the  many 
accomplishments  of  the  tiny  creatures,  who,  frightened  by  the 
strange  crowd,  raced  and  scampered  about  the  cage  with  astonish- 
ing rapidity. 

Madam  Ainsworth  almost  fainted.  "  Thomas,  disperse  the 
crowd,"  she  gasped,  as  she  made  her  way  up  the  steps.  "  And  take 
these  away,"  indicating  the  cage,  the  sign,  and  Lilybel. 

To  the  credit  of  Philip  we  will  say  that  he  was  with  his  tutor, 
and  knew  nothing  about  the  exhibition.  It  was  entirely  a  business 
arrangement  between  Lilybel  and  the  shoeblack. 

When  Madam  Ainsworth  ferreted  out  the  truth,  that  Lilybel 
was  again  installed  in  the  stable,  and  that  Philip  was  aware  of  it,  her 


sardines." 


bes'." 

Again  Bassett  wasi 
ind  old  soul  stood  byl 
misgivings,  furnished] 

Philip's  troublesomel 

herself  that  she  had] 

approached   the  en- 

;  a  crowd  of  men  and  | 

of  fire  within  ;  but  no, 

;hing  without.     When 

,nd  she  made  her  way 

:h  horror  a  sign  on  the 

;eboard  box,  and  on  it 

Mise  ter  sea  Jive  sents 

f  Philip's  best  jackets, 

e  cage  that  contained 

I  loud  voice,  the  many 

,o,    frightened    by   the 

tie  cage  with  astonish- 

Thomas,  disperse  the 
>  the  steps.  "  And  take 
Lnd  Lilybcl. 

;  he  was  with  his  tutor, 
was  entirely  a  business 

ack. 

the  truth,  that  Lilybel 
ilip  was  aware  of  it,  her 


IS 

d 


^^^^^^^^^^m^^'^^^^^^^^^^^^'^^^^''^^^ 


^^j-  !*^-.c^j?r7;  ■-"■"- "^^- 


f  *^"'''^^^- ■#-"'" -iiii 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


CIHM/ICMH 

Microfiche 

Series. 


CIHIVI/iCIVIH 
Collection  de 
microfiches. 


iu. 


Canadian  Institute  for  Historical  IVIicroreproductions  /  Institut  Canadian  de  microreproductions  historiques 


indignatic 
ing  her  so 
Agai 
plead  for 
results, 
bel  at  lea 
poor  "chi! 
uncertaint 


TOINETTE's   PHILIP  157 

indignation,  knew  no  bounds,  and  for  a  moment  she  came  near  turn- 
ing  her  son's  adopted  son  and  the  "children"  out  of  the  house  forever 
Again  as  he  had  done  a  year  before,  Philip  was  obliged  to 
plead  for  the  innocent  "children."  but  this  time  with  less  pleasant 
results  The  crisis  had  come,  and  there  was  no  temporizing.  Lily- 
bel  at  least  must  go,  and  go  permanently ;  as  to  the  fate  of  the 
poor  "children."  Philip  was  for  a  time  left  in  a  state  of  harrowing 
uncertamty.  * 


they 
that 


Chapter  XXVI 


"GOOD   NIGHT,  MR.  BUTLER 


A  FEW  days   after  the  exhibition  on  the  front  steps,  Madam 
Ainsworth  was   sitting   in   her  drawing-room   talking  very 
earnestly  with  her  old  friend,  and  her  voice  was  raised  some- 
what above  its  usual  well-bred  level. 

"  If  they  had  consulted  me  it  never  would  have  happened,"  she 
said,  decidedly.     "  They  were  too  hasty,  and  now  they  regret  it." 

"  Naturally,  they  would  like  their  own  son  to  be  the  elder,"  the 
friend  placidly  answered. 

"  Certainly,  they  would ;  but  it  's  not  only  that.  They  are  tired 
of  the  boy ;  he  has  n't  turned  out  as  they  expected.  As  he  grows 
older,  very  common  traits  develop  in  his  character.  And  what  else 
can  you  expect  from  a  child  brought  up  by  an  old  colored  woman  ? 
Lately  he  has  had  a  little  negro  thief  here  to  whom  he  is  devoted. 
We  have  had  a  terrible  struggle  to  keep  the  little  rascal  away  from 
the  premises ;  and  even  now  I  dare  say  Philip  meets  him  outside." 

"  How  fortunate  the  little  heiress  is  n't  here  this  winter,"  remarked 
the  friend. 

"Oh,  if  Lucille  had  n't  gone  abroad  with  her  mother,  I  should 
have  insisted  on  his  being  sent  away.  The  poor  child  suffered 
enough  through  him  last  winter,"  said  Madam  Ainsworth,  angrily. 
"  And  now  Edward  and  Laura  are  as  miserable  as  they  can  be,  and 
all  on  account  of  that  troublesome  boy.  They  don't  love  him  noW 
as  they  thought  they  did.     I  '11  give  them  the  credit  of  thinking 


shou 


for  a 

Ains 
happ 
that 
no  w 

after 

behi 

slipp 

had 

the  ] 

wilH 

visit 
Phili 
nest 


IS8 


TOINETTES   PHILIP 


159 


:  steps,  Madam 
n  talking  very 
fas  raised  some- 
happened,"  she 
they  regret  it." 
J  the  elder,"  the 

They  are  tired 
..     As  he  grows 

And  what  else 
colored  woman? 
n  he  is  devoted, 
ascal  away  from 
5  him  outside." 
inter,"  remarked 

mother,  I  should 
r  child  suffered 
isworth,  angrily, 
they  can  be,  and 
i*t  love  him  noiw 
edit  of  thinking 


they  were  fond  of  him,  but  they  never  really  loved  the  boy ;  and  now 
that  they  have  one  of  their  own,  they  know  it." 

"It  's  a  very  unfortunate  situation,  is  it  not?"  said  the  friend. 
"  They  can't  very  well  get  rid  of  him,  can  they  ?  " 

"No,  that  's  just  it;  they  can't.  I  should  not  be  sorry  if  he 
should  take  it  into  his  head  to  run  off  with  some  of  his  low  compan- 
ions where  they  could  never  hear  from  him  again." 

"  Dear  me,  and  to  think  of  all  they  have  done  for  him !  It  would 
be  a  terrible  change  for  the  boy  after  his  life  of  luxury,"  said  the 
friend,  smoothly. 

"  Oh,  I  think  he  would  prefer  a  gipsy  life.  There  's  no  doubt  in 
my  mind  of  his  being  the  child  of  very  common  parents ;  and  to 
think  that  Edward  should  adopt  him  without  knowing!" 

"  It 's  going  to  be  very  bad  for  their  own  son  to  have  such  a  boy 
for  an  elder  brother — for  you  know  children  are  so  imitative." 

"  Yes,  it  's  dreadful  any  way  you  look  at  it,"  returned  Madam 
Ainsworth,  with  a  heavy  sigh.  "And  just  now,  when  I  could  be  so 
happy  with  my  grandson,  to  have  it  all  spoiled  by  that  little  waif — 
that  little  intruder  into  my  family !  And  as  far  as  I  can  see,  there  's 
no  way  to  get  rid  of  him." 

When  Madam  Ainsworth  and  her  friend  left  the  drawing-room, 
after  some  more  confidential  chatter,  there  was  a  slight  movement 
behind  the  curtain  that  draped  the  alcove  of  the  window,  and  Philip 
slipped  out  silently  and  timidly.  He  was  very  pale,  and  his  eyes 
had  a  wild,  frightened  look.  He  had  been  sitting  there  watching 
the  people  in  the  street  when  the  old  ladies  entered,  and  he  had  un- 
willingly heard  every  word  of  their  conversation. 

Later  in  the  day,  when  Madam  Ainsworth  was  returning  from  a 
visit  of  charity,  as  her  carriage  crossed  Seventh  Avenue  she  saw 
Philip  and  Lilybel  standing  on  a  corner  talking  together  very  ear- 
nestly.    "  It 's  just  as  I  thought,"  she  said  to  herself;  "  he  sees  that 


/- 


''f^'"^yr-trmr 


I  60 


TOINETTES   PHILIP 


little  ragamufifin  outside.     What  in  the  world  can  he  wish  to  say  to 
him?     I  really  dread  the  result  of  having  that  boy  under  our  roof!" 

When  Philip  entered  the  drawing-room  just  before  dinner,  they 
all  noticed  how  excited  he  appeared,  and  how  carelessly  he  was 
dressed. 

"  That  boy  is  not  fit  to  come  into  the  drawing-room,"  said 
Madam  Ainsworth  in  a  low,  vexed  voice  to  her  daughter-in-law. 
"He  is  so  untidy,  and  utterly  indifferent  to  his  dress!" 

"  I  'm  very  sorry,"  returned  Mrs.  Ainsworth,  flushing  a  little. 
"  Perhaps  it  's  my  fault.  I  'm  afraid  I  have  neglected  him  lately ; 
he  certainly  has  changed  in  appearance." 

Philip  noticed  Madam  Ainsworth's  look  of  disgust,  and  heard 
her  unkind  words;  for  his  senses  were  very  acute,  and  his  heart 
veiy  sore.  He  was  looking  at  a  book,  and  he  bent  his  head  lower 
over  it  to  hide  the  tears  that  sprang  to  his  eyes.  When  dinner  was 
aimounced,  he  walked  out  silently  behind  the  others,  and  took  his 
accustomed  place  without  a  word. 

Bassett  was  distressed  because  the  boy  ate  nothing ;  and  when 
the  dessert  came  out  he  slipped  a  generous  plate  of  macaroons  and 
bonbons  into  a  drawer,  saying  to  himself,  "The  little  chap  shall 
'ave  these  to-night.  'E  's  hill  and  un'appy.  I  'm  going  to  cheer  'im 
hup  with  these." 

While  Bassett  was  putting  away  the  silver,  Philip  slipped  softly 
into  the  pantry,  and  stood  near  the  old  man,  watching  him  wistfully. 
He  wanted  to  say  something,  but  his  heart  was  too  full.  When  Bas- 
sett took  out  the  bonbons  and  gave  them  to  him,  he  could  not  con- 
trol himself;  his  lips  quivered  pitifully,  and  large  tears  rolled  over 
his  face. 

"Why  —  why.  Master  Philip,  my  litde  man,  what  's  the  matter? 
What 's  'appened  ?  "  cried  Bassett,  astonished  at  such  signs  of  trou- 
ble in  his  usually  merry  little  friend. 


wish  to  say  to 
der  our  roof!" 
e  dinner,  they 
lessly  he  was 

g-room,"  said 

ughter-in-law. 

ss!" 

shing  a  little. 

;d  him  lately; 

ist,  and  heard 
and  his  heart 
lis  head  lower 
en  dinner  was 
and  took  his 

ng ;  and  when 
nacaroons  and 
tie  chap  shall 
ig  to  cheer  'im 

slipped  softly 

him  wistfully. 

.     When  Bas- 

:ould  not  con- 

rs  rolled  over 


s  the  matter? 
signs  of  trou- 


L 


-<5'  ■' 


••bassett  gave  him  a  hearty  clasp." 


If 

life 


rvf 


TOINETTES   PHILIP 


163 


"  Oh,  nothing,  Mr.  Butler;  but  —  but  you  *re  so  good  to  me,  and 
it  makes  me  cry  now  when  —  when  any  one  is  good  to  me." 

"  Yes,  I  see,  my  poor  little  lad.  You  hain't  has  rugged  has  you 
used  to  be ;  I  see  you  're  losing  your  happetite,  an'  that  won't  do. 
You  must  n't  fret.  It  's  halong  of  that  new  boy ;  they  're  all  so 
taken  hup  with  'im  that  they  don't  think  of  no  one  else." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  mind  that,  Mr.  Butler.  Well,"  with  a  heavy  sigh 
and  a  fresh  burst  of  tears,  "I  'm  —  I  'm  going  to  my  room  now. 
Good  night,  Mr.  Butler;  good  night."  Still  he  lingered,  with  his 
hand  on  the  door.  Suddenly  he  turned  to  Bassett  and  said,  almost 
entreatingly,  "  I  wish  —  I  wish  —  you  'd  shake  hands  with  me,  Mr. 
Butler." 

"Why,  bless  your  'eart,  my  dear  little  lad,  hof  course  I  will." 
And  Bassett  gave  him  such  a  hearty  clasp  that  Philip  smiled  through 
his  tears. 

"  And  —  and  you  won't  —  you  won't  forget  me,  will  you  ?  " 

"  Forget  you  ?  Why,  'ow  you  do  talk !  'Ow  am  I  a-going  to 
forget  you  when  I  see  you  every  day  ?  " 

"  But  when  I  'm  not  here ;  when  —  when  I  go  away  you  '11  stand 
up  for  me  ?    You  '11  say  I  was  n't  a  bad  boy,  won't  you  ?  " 

"  That  I  will.  Master  Philip.  I  '11  stand  hup  for  you  has  long  has 
I  've  a  leg  to  stand  on." 

"Oh,  thank  you!  Good  night,  and  thank  you  for  the  candy 
and  cake."  And  with  a  look  eloquent  of  mingled  sorrow  and 
affection,  Philip  hurried  out. 

When  he  had  gone,  Bassett  stood  for  some  time  looking 
thoughtfully  at  the  forks  in  his  hand;  then  he  muttered  to  him- 
self: "  Hit 's  too  bad  the  way  they  slight  that  pretty,  kind-'earted 
little  chap;  hand  what's  'e  got  in  his 'ead  to-night?  'E 's  that 
blue  'e  halmost  made  me  cry  myself.  I  must  try  to  cheer  'im 
hup  to-morrow." 


ill 


r 


iM 


164 


TOINETTES   PHILIP 


When  Philip  reached  his  room,  he  looked  around  him  nervously; 
then  he  opened  the  door  cautiously  and  listened.  They  were  all 
below  in  the  drawing-room.  There  were  visitors ;  once  in  a  while 
he  heard  the  sound  of  laughter  and  conversation.  They  were  all 
very  much  engaged ;  they  were  not  thinking  of  him.  After  standing 
silent  a  moment  in  deep  thought,  he  went  to  a  drawer,  and  from  the 
very  bottom  of  it  he  drew  out  the  red  and  yellow  silk  kerchief  be- 
longing to  the  "children."  This,  with  a  thick  woolen  one  which 
he  wore  in  cold  weather  to  protect  his  throat,  he  wrapped  carefully 
around  the  cage  and  tied  securely.  Then  he  took  a  small  bag  which 
Mrs.  Ainsworth  had  given  him  for  his  school-books,  and  lifting  from 
the  upper  shelf  of  his  wardrobe  a  paper  box,  he  removed  from  it  the 
crumpled  funeral  wreath  with  the  motto,  "A  ma  mire"  enveloped  in 
the  piece  of  crape  —  Dea's  last  gift.  These  he  carefully  folded  in 
paper  and  deposited  in  the  bottom  of  the  bag.  On  his  table  lay  the 
little  Bible  and  Prayer-book  —  Toinette's  gift :  these  he  also  placed 
with  the  wreath.  Then  he  opened  his  small  safe,  and  taking  out  his 
savings  which  he  had  hoarded  with  great  self-denial,  he  counted 
them  over  and  over ;  there  was  not  so  much  as  he  thought  he  had, 
but  he  had  drawn  heavily  on  them  to  supply  Lilybel's  exorbitant 
demands.  However,  he  put  what  there  was  in  his  pocket-book,  and 
that,  with  Bassett's  paper  of  bonbons,  he  dropped  into  the  bag  with 
his  other  treasures.  From  his  wardrobe  he  selected  his  oldest  suit, 
his  oldest  shoes  and  cap ;  and  when  he  had  put  them  on  he  hesitated 
a  moment  over  the  fur  coat.  It  was  so  warm  —  but  no :  it  had  cost 
a  great  deal ;  he  would  not  take  it.  He  hung  it  up,  and  instead  of 
it  he  selected  a  plain  little  ulster.  It  was  thick  and  warm,  but  not  so 
warm  as  the  rejected  fur  coat. 

When  he  was  dressed  he  opened  the  door  and  listened.  There 
was  no  one  on  the  back  landing ;  he  knew  he  could  slip  out  that  way 
without  being  seen,  so  he  took  the  '•  children  "  in  one  hand,  and  the 


:/- 


TOINETTES    PHILIP 


'65 


lim  nervously; 
rhey  were  all 
ice  in  a  while 
They  were  all 
After  standing 
,  and  from  the 
k  kerchief  be- 
len  one  which 
ipped  carefully 
nail  bag  which 
nd  lifting  from 
^ed  from  it  the 
"  enveloped  in 
:fully  folded  in 
s  table  lay  the 
he  also  placed 
taking  out  his 
il,  he  counted 
lought  he  had, 
el's  exorbitant 
:ket-book,  and 
3  the  bag  with 
his  oldest  suit, 
•n  he  hesitated 
10 :  it  had  cost 
md  instead  of 
rm,  but  not  so 


bag  in  the  other.  They  were  his  own  little  belongings,  and  they 
were  all  he  had ;  and  silently  and  tremblingly  he  crept,  like  a  little 
culprit,  down  the  back  stairs  and  out  into  the  street. 

It  was  early  in  March,  and  a  wretched  drizzling  night,  half  rain 
and  half  snow.  Philip  shivered  and  coughed  as  he  stepped  upon 
the  sidewalk.  For  a  moment  he  hesitated ;  then  with  a  last  sor- 
rowful look  at  the  luxurious  home  he  was  leaving,  he  went  out  in 
the  cold  and  darkness  with  only  Pfere  Josef's  little  "children"  for 
company. 


tened.  There 
p  out  that  way 
hand,  and  the 


II* 


li^^^    'i  S 


i 


r- 


Chapter  XXVII 


THE    EMPTY    ROOM 

THE  next  morning  after  Philip's  departure,  Madam  Ainsworth 
and  her  daughter-in-law  were  sitting  at  the  breakfast- table 
alone.  Neither  of  the  ladies  ate  much,  and  both  seemed  pre- 
occupied and  troubled.  When  the  meal  was  nearly  over,  Mrs. 
Ainsworth  looked  up  suddenly  and  said,  as  if  it  had  just  occurred 
to  her,  "Why,  where  is  Philip  this  morning?  He  is  always  so 
punctual ;  I  'm  afraid  he  is  ill." 

•*  If  you  please,  Madam,"  remarked  Bassett,  with  a  little  tremor 
in  his  voice,  "  I  will  go  to  'is  room  and  hinquire." 

"Yes,  go,"  replied  Madam  Ainsworth,  petulantly;  "and  tell  him 
to  come  down  immediately  —  that  we  have  nearly  finished  break- 
fast. I  hope  the  boy  is  n't  going  to  be  dilatory.  It  will  be  very 
trying  if  he  is." 

"He  never  has  been,"  said  Mrs.  Ainsworth,  excusingly ;  "he  is 
always  down  before  we  are.  I  notice  he  coughs  lately ;  I  'm  afraid 
he  is  not  well.  I  must  really  consult  the  doctor ;  I  confess  I  am 
worried  about  him.* 

"  Oh,  he  has  a  little  cold,  I  suppose,"  said  Madam  Ainsworth,  in- 
differently ;  "  but  it 's  not  his  health  I  should  worry  about." 

"Why,  what  has  he  done  now?"  asked  Mrs.  Ainsworth,  sur- 
prised. "  I  hope  there  is  no  new  trouble  " ;  and  before  her  mother- 
in-law  could  reply,  Bassett  entered  hurriedly  and  unceremoniously. 

"  The  room  's  hempty ! "  he  exclaimed ;  "  and  Master  Philip  's 
gone ! " 

i66 


TOINETTE  S   PHILIP 


167 


[adam  Ainsworth 
e  breakfast-table 
both  seemed  pre- 
early  over,  Mrs. 
lad  just  occurred 
He  is  always  so 

h  a  little  tremor 

Y;  "and  tell  him 
/  finished  break- 
It  will  be  very 

:usingly;  "he  is 

itely ;  I  'm  afraid 

I  confess  I  am 

tn  Ainsworth,  in- 

about." 

Ainaworth,  sur- 
tfore  her  mother- 
inceremoniously. 
Master  Philip  's 


The  old  man  was  pale,  and  trembled  visibly.  His  strange  man- 
ner alarmed  Mrs.  Ainsworth.  "  Gone ! "  she  cried,  starting  up  ex- 
citedly.    "  What  do  you  mean  ?     Gone  where  ?  " 

'•  Oh,  I  don't  know  where  'e  's  gone,  poor  little  lad,"  replied  Bas- 
sett,  in  a  broken  voice.  "Hall  I  know  his  that  'is  room  his  hempty, 
and  that  'e  did  n't  sleep  i!i  'is  bed  last  night;  'e  must  'ave  left  last  night." 
"  What !  Has  he  been  gone  all  night?  Out  alone  in  the  dark 
and  cold!  Oh,  what  can  have  happened  to  him?"  gasped  Mrs. 
Ainsworth,  pale  and  trembling.  "  He  must  have  met  with  some 
dreadful  accident  to  keep  him  away  all  night!" 

"Hit  was  not  han  haccident,  Madam,"  said  the  butler,  gravely. 
"Hin  my  hopinion,  Master  Philip  's  gone  with  the  hintention  of 
staying,  because  'e  'as  taken  'is  cage  of  little  mice  with  'im." 

"Run  away!  Just  what  I  expected  he  would  do!"  exclaimed 
Madam  Ainsworth.  She  was  so  excited  that  she  quite  forgot  Bas- 
sett  was  in  the  room. 

"  Please  don't  condemn  him  until  you  know,"  pleaded  Mrs.  Ains- 
worth. "  I  can't  think  he  has  gone  of  his  own  will ;  he  loved  us  so, 
and  was  so  —  so  grateful  and  happy." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.  Madam,"  interposed  Bassett,  decidedly ;  "  if 
I  may  be  hallowed  to  say  hit.  Master  Philip  'as  n't  been  'appy  for 
some  time.  I  don't  know  what  was  hin  'is  little  mind,  but  now  I 
think  of  hit,  I  might  'ave  known  that  something  was  a-going  to 
'appen  by  the  way  'e  came  to  me  in  the  pantry  last  night,  and  hasked 
me  to  stand  hup  for  'im  when  he  was  gone  " — 

"Oh,  you  knew  it,  did  you?"  interrupted  Madam  Ainsworth, 
severely ;  "  and  you  never  told.  Really,  Bassett,  you  astonish  me." 
"  No,  I  did  n't  ^now  nothing.  Madam,"  returned  Bassett,  firmly ; 
"I  honly  thought  the  pretty  little  lad  was  hill  hand  down  hin  spirits, 
hand  I  tried  to  cheer  'im  hup;  then  when  'e  said  good  night,  'e  — 
was  a-cryin'." 


yj 


a^ 


1 68 


TOINETTE  S   PHILIP 


"Did  he  say  anything,  Bassett?  Did  he  tell  you  where  he  was 
going  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Ainsworth,  anxiously. 

"Not  a  word,  Madam;  'e  did  n't  heven  say  that  'e  was  going; 
honly  'inted  at  something." 

"Oh,  I  am  to  blame;  it  is  my  fault,"  cried  Mrs.  Ainsworth, 
regretfully.  "  Since  I  had  Baby  I  have  neglected  the  poor  boy.  I 
did  n't  mean  to,  but  I  have.  I  have  driven  him  away.  What  shall 
I  do  ?  How  shall  I  find  him  ?  "  And  Mrs.  Ainsworth  looked  ap- 
pealingly  at  her  mother-in-law. 

"  My  dear  Laura,  don't  be  foolish.  It  is  absurd  to  make  a  fuss 
about  that  boy,"  said  Madam  Ainsworth,  coldly.  ••  The  ungrateful 
little  creature  has  grown  tired  of  your  kindness,  and  he  has  gone 
back  to  his  former  condition.  In  plain  words,  he  has  run  away.  I 
saw  him  again  with  that  little  negro  only  yesterday.  They  were 
plotting  then ;  and  if  you  remember,  he  seemed  guilty  last  night 
He  was  ashamed  to  look  one  in  the  face." 

"  I  remember  that  he  seemed  excited  and  troubled,  but  I  should 
not  say  that  that  was  an  indication  of  guilt.  I  can't  understand  it ;  I 
can't  think  he  would  go  voluntarily,  and  without  a  word  to  me.  I 
wish  Edward  were  here.  I  don't  know  what  to  do ;  I  don't  know 
what  steps  to  take !  "  cried  Mrs.  Ainsworth,  despairingly. 

"Bassett,  did  you  notice  whether  he  had  taken  his  clothing?" 
asked  Madam  Ainsworth. 

"  I  should  say.  Madam,  that  'e  'ad  honly  took  what  'e  'ad  hon.  I 
looked  hin  'is  wardrobe;  hit  was  full,  hand  'is  little  fur  coat  was 
there." 

"  Oh,  well,  then  you  can  depend  on  his  coming  back.  He  has 
gone  off  on  some  expedition  with  those  low  companions  of  his. 
When  he  is  tired  and  hungry  he  will  return." 

"  But  we  ought  to  do  something  now,"  urged  Mrs.  Ainsworth,  "  I 
can't  let  the  matter  rest  and  wait  for  him  to  come  back." 


/- 


TOINETTES   PHILIP 


169 


here  he  was 

was  going; 

Ainsworth, 

oor  boy.     I 

What  shall 

looked  ap- 

make  a  fuss 
z  ungrateful 
le  has  gone 
un  away.  I 
They  were 
1^  last  night 

3ut  I  should 

;rstand  it ;  I 

d  to  me.     I 

don't  know 

r. 

clothing?" 

'ad  hon.     I 
iir  coat  was 

k.     He  has 
ions  of  his. 

nsworth,  "I 


"  I  should  advise  you  to  do  so,"  returned  Madam  Ainsworth,  in- 
differently. "  I  suspect  that  the  bootblack  and  the  little  negro  have 
persuaded  the  boy  to  go  off  and  exhibit  those  horrid  little  animals. 
One  can't  tell  what  absurd  ideas  they  have  put  in  his  head.  In  any 
case,  I  should  advise  you  to  wait  at  least  for  a  few  days,  and  avoid 
all  talk  and  excitement.  It  would  be  ridiculous  to  make  a  great 
fuss,  and  then  have  him  come  back,  hungry  and  dirty,  just  as  the  lit- 
tle negro  did.  No  doubt  it  is  one  of  his  pleasant  little  tricks  to  sur- 
prise and  alarm  us." 

"  I  wish  I  could  think  so,"  said  Mrs.  Ainsworth,  sadly.  "  I  wish 
he  would  come  back  this  moment,  well  and  unharmed." 

"  And  I  wish  he  would  stay  away,"  thought  Madam  Ainsworth, 
as  she  left  the  breakfast-room.  "  I  think  we  should  be  well  rid  of 
him." 

Bassett  went  about  with  a  very  sorrowful  face.  Thinking  of 
Philip's  strange  manner  the  preceding  evening,  he  felt  that  the  boy 
had  said  good-by  instead  of  good  night.  "  Pretty  little  lad,  'e  was 
that  un'appy  that  'e  could  n't  bear  hit  hany  longer,"  thought  Bassett, 
as  he  worked  and  pondered ;  '"'  so  'e  just  took  them  little  hanimals 
and  went  hoff  hall  halone  last  night.  Dear  me,  what  's  to  become 
hof  a  delicate  little  chap  like  that  ?  " 

Several  days  passed.  Philip  did  not  return,  and  nothing  was 
heard  of  him.  The  bootblack  was  questioned  concerning  Lilybel, 
but  he  could  give  no  information.  The  little  negro  had  vanished  too ; 
evidently  he  and  Philip  had  gone  together. 

When  Mrs.  Ainsworth  examined  the  boy's  room,  she  was  fully 
convinced  that  he  did  not  intend  to  return.  She  missed  the  funeral 
wreath,  the  Bible,  and  prayer-book,  and  she  knevr  that  he  had  gone 
forever,  and  taken  his  treasures  with  him.  In  spite  of  Madam  Ains- 
worth's  advice,  she  was  not  satisfied  to  let  the  matter  rest.  After  a 
week  had  passed  and  there  was  no  news  of  the  missing  boy,  she 


/- 


m 

■* 


inijiimpi 


170 


TOINETTES   PHILIP 


wrote  to  her  husband  for  advice,  and  at  the  same  time  employed  a 
detective  to  find  Philip.  She  was  conscience-stricken  and  dismayed 
when  she  fully  realized  how  she  had  neglected  the  child  and  left  him 
to  himself.  "  It  is  my  fault,"  she  would  think  regretfully.  "  He 
has  a  beautiful  nature ;  he  was  so  affectionate,  so  generous.  I  could 
have  made  anything  of  him.  He  would  have  been  good  and  happy 
if  I  had  not  seemed  to  forget  him  —  if  I  had  not  neglected  my  duty. 
If  he  is  lost,  if  he  is  ruined,  I  alone  am  to  blame." 


1 


J  employed  a 
nd  dismayed 
and  left  him 
fully.  "  He 
)us.  I  could 
d  and  happy 
ted  my  duty. 


Chapter  XXVIII 

P^RE  JOSEF  SENDS  A  PACKAGE  OF  LETTERS 

WHEN  P^re  Josef,  after  long  and  weary  journeying^ 
through  the  mountainous  regions  of  New  Mexico,  re- 
turned at  last  to  the  little  mission  of  San  Miguel,  he  found 
a  letter,  written  months  before,  from  his  friend  P^re  Martin  of  St. 
Mary's,  telling  him  of  the  death  of  Toinette,  and  of  the  adoption 
of  Philip  by  the  Northern  artist  and  his  wife.  Whereupon,  Pfere 
Josef  wrote  immediately  to  Phre  Martin,  asking  that  a  certain  pack- 
age of  papers  left  in  his  care  be  forwarded  as  soon  as  possible  to  the 
Mission  of  San  Miguel;  but  long  before  the  papers  reached  him 
P^re  Josef  was  off  on  another  journey,  longer  and  more  arduous 
than  the  preceding,  and  it  was  well  on  in  the  second  winter  of  his 
mission  when  he  returned  to  San  Miguel  and  found  the  package 
awaiting  him. 

One  night,  alone  in  his  little  cell,  weary,  disheartened,  and 
homesick,  P^re  Josef  broke  the  seal  of  a  large  brown  envelop  ad- 
dressed to  him  in  a  feeble,  almost  illegible  scrawl.  Within  it  were 
several  papers  and  quite  a  number  of  letters.  The  first  one  he 
opened  and  glanced  at  bore  the  signature  of  Toinette,  and  read 
as  follows: 

Dear  PfeRE  Josef  :  The  doctor  says  I  have  heart  disease  and  may  die  suddenly; 
that  is  why  I  write  this  letter  to  you,  and  why  I  give  you  these  papers  to  keep  and  to 
open  only  after  I  am  at  rest,  I  want  to  have  everything  plain  and  clear  for  my  boy 
when  I  am  gone,  and  when  you  read  this  letter  you  will  understand  all  about  it. 

171 


id 

I    Hi 


:/~ 


172 


TOINETTE'S   PHILIP 


You  may  think  that  I  ought  to  have  told  you  all  this  long  ago,  but  I  never  could. 
I  never  could  decide  to  be  parted  from  my  boy,  and  I  knew  you  would  tell  me  that  it 
was  my  duty  to  give  him  up. 

I  must  begin  at  the  beginning,  and  try  to  tell  you  all  as  plainly  as  I  can.  I  was 
brought  up  by  the  Detrava  family  with  great  care  and  kindness.  I  was  uught  to  speak 
French  and  English,  to  read,  write,  and  embroider,  and  also  to  plant  and  cultivate 
flowers.  When  my  young  mistress.  Miss  Estelle,  was  bom,  I  was  thirty.  They  put  the 
babe  in  my  arms;  she  was  mine  from  that  hour,  and  I  belonged  to  her.  She  grew  up 
pretty  and  good.  I  watched  over  her,  and  loved  her  better  than  anything  on  earth. 
When  the  war  came,  and  she  lost  both  father  and  mother,  she  was  more  mine  than 
ever.  It  was  hard  to  live  then;  every  one  was  for  himself,  and  no  one  remembered 
the  desolate  orphan.  I  put  my  arms  around  her  and  held  her  up  when  she  was  ready 
to  fall.    She  was  Ufe  and  everything  to  me. 

There  was  an  encampment  of  Union  soldiers  near  our  plantation.  They  were 
our  enemies,  but  they  did  not  molest  us.  The  young  captain  in  charge  was  very  good 
to  us.  He  pitied  my  young  mistress,  and  did  all  he  could  to  protect  us  and  make  us 
comfortable,  and  he  was  so  gentle  and  kind  that  we  could  not  help  liking  him  and  trusting 
him.  You  know  what  a  feeling  there  was  at  that  time,  and  how  secretly  everything 
had  to  be  done.  I  saw  how  it  all  was,  but  I  did  not  know  how  it  would  end  for  my 
poor  child.  Well,  one  night  they  were  privately  married  by  a  strange  French  priest. 
He  had  come  to  our  parish  to  take  the  place  of  our  cur6,  who  had  gone  as  chaplain 
in  a  Confederate  regiment.    Pfere  Josef,  you  were  the  priest  who  married  them. 

Here  P^re  Josef  looked  up  from  the  letter,  and  sat  for  some 
time  in  deep  thought  "Yes,"  he  said  at  length  to  himself,  "I 
remember  it.  It  was  while  I  was  in  St.  John  the  Baptist  It  was 
one  night  in  the  little  vestry,  the  poor  young  things  came  to  me, 
and  I  could  n't  refuse.  Those  were  stirring  times,  and  strange 
things  happened.  Yes,  I  remember ;  a  pale,  lovely  girl  and  a  young 
Union  officer.  I  thought  it  very  strange,  but  I  married  them.  Yes, 
this  is  the  certificate  I  gave  them,"  and  he  unfolded  a  paper  and 
saw  his  own  signature.    Then  he  went  on  reading  Toinette's  letter. 

Now  I  have  recalled  that  to  you,  you  will  remember  what  followed.  A  year 
after  you  baptized  their  child,  a  beautiful  boy,  and  when  the  child  was  scarce  two 
months  old,  the  yOung  father  was  killed  in  a  skirmish,  and  my  mistress,  the  child,  and 


TOINETTE  S   PHILIP 


^73 


1 1  never  could. 
d  tell  me  that  it 

18  I  can.  I  was 
taught  to  speak 
It  and  cultivate 
.  They  put  the 
r.  She  grew  up 
ything  on  earth. 
more  mine  than 
me  remembered 
n  she  was  ready    < 

on.  They  were 
e  was  very  good 
us  and  make  us 
him  and  trusting 
aretly  everything 
>uld  end  for  my 
;e  French  priest, 
(one  as  chaplain 
ed  them. 

sat  for  some 

»  himself,   "I 

ptist     It  was 

came  to  me, 

and  strange 

and  a  young 

[  them.     Yes, 

a  paper  and 

inette's  letter. 

>]lowed.  A  year 
1  was  scarce  two 
!ss,  the  child,  and 


a  nurse  fled  from  the  country  to  the  city  house,  which,  as  you  may  remember,  was 
burnt  that  very  night.  All  three  were  supposed  to  have  perished  in  the  flames. 
It  is  true  the  young  mother  lost  her  life,  but  the  child  and  nurse  did  not.     I  am  the 


.,y^ 


PtWt   JOSBF    READS    TOmETTE'S    LETTER. 

nurse,  and  Philip  is  the  child.  When  the  fire  broke  out,  the  babe  was  asleep  in 
my  arms.  I  carried  him  to  a  place  of  safety,  and  then  went  back  to  try  to  save  my 
dear  mUtress;  but  I  was  too  late.    I  could  not  find  her.    When  I  heard  that  the 


174 


TOINETTES   PHILIP 


nurse  and  child  were  supposed  to  be  buried  in  the  ruins,  I  took  the  baby,  without  atiy 
one  noticing  me,  and  fled  to  a  friend  in  another  part  of  the  city.  She  gave  me  shelter, 
and  kept  my  secret  until  shj  died.  After  her  death  I  went  back  to  the  Detrava 
place.  I  wanted  the  boy  to  grow  up  on  his  own  property ;  he  did  n't  know  that  it  was 
his,  but  I  knew  that  it  would  some  day  belong  to  him. 

Do  you  remember  when  I  first  brought  Philip  to  you,  how  closely  and  severely 
you  questioned  me  about  his  parentage?  You  did  not  remember  me,  and  you  did 
not  dream  that  the  boy  was  the  child  of  Estelle  Detrava  and  the  young  Union 
officer. 

You  will,  wonder  why  I  concealed  the  truth  and  kept  my  secret  so  long.  I  will 
tell  you:  I  loved  the  chUd;  he  was  the  only  one  left  of  his  family,  and  it  seemed  as 
though  he  belonged  to  me,  and  that  it  would  kill  me  to  lose  him ;  but  the  strongest 
reason  of  all  was,  I  had  solemnly  promised  my  young  mistress  that  if  she  should  be 
taken  away,  I  would  never  part  with  the  child.  For  a  reason  very  natural  then  she 
was  set  against  his  being  brought  up  in  the  North.  She  knew  that  her  husband  had 
never  made  his  marriage  known  to  his  family,  because  of  the  bitter  feeling  between 
the  two  parts  of  the  country.  She  was  proud  and  sensitive  about  it,  and  she  made 
me  promise  over  and  over  that  if  she  and  her  young  husband  died,  I  would  keep 
the  boy,  at  least  until  he  was  old  enough  to  choose  for  himself.  I  was  afiraid  if 
I  gave  him  up  that  he  would  be  sent  North  to  his  father's  family,  and  that  I  should 
be  parted  from  him.  They  knew  nothing  about  him,  and  perhaps  they  would  not 
care  for  him,  and  he  was  my  very  life.  No,  I  could  n't  give  him  up  then,  but  I 
thought  I  could  when  he  got  older.  That  time—- the  time  to  give  him  up— has  never 
come,  and  I  think  and  hope  it  never  will  until  I  am  where  I  cannot  miss  him,  or 
fret  to  lose  him. 

But  I  must  finish  this,  because  writing  tires  me  and  is  slow  work.  I  have  been 
days  and  nights  over  this  confession,  trying  to  make  it  all  clear  and  plain.  After  the 
excitement  about  the  fire  was  over,  I  went  secredy  back  to  the  deserted  plantation- 
house  and  got  all  of  my  young  mistress's  papers,  which  fortunately  she  left  behind  her 
in  her  hurried  flight,  or  they  would  have  been  lost  with  her.  I  knew  they  would  be 
needed  some  day.  They  are  all  in  this  package — the  certificates  which  you  gave,  and 
a  number  of  letters  from  the  young  officer  to  my  mistress;  and  you  will  see  that  there  is 
a  letter  addressed  to  the  young  man's  mother,  which  has  never  been  open  kL  He  gave 
it  to  my  mistress,  so  that  if  anything  happened  to  him  she  could  send  it  to  his  mother. 
I  suppose  that  in  it  he  confesses  his  marriage  and  asks  them  to  take  care  of  his  wife  and 
child.  But  she,  blessed  saint,  will  never  need  their  care.  She  went  to  heaven,  as 
her  young  husband  had  a  few  days  before  her;  and  now  there  is  none  left  but  the 
boy,  who,  when  I  am  gone,  must  be  given  to  his  father's  family.    It  may  be  wrong  to 


r~ 


TOINETTES   PHILIP 


175 


,  without  atiy 

tre  me  shelter, 

the  Detrava 

sw  that  it  was 

and  severely 

and  you  did 

young  Union 

I  long.  I  will 
1  it  seemed  as 
:  the  strongest 
she  should  be 
tural  then  she 

husband  had 
«ling  between 
and  she  made 
I  would  keep 

was  afraid  if 

that  I  should 
ley  would  not 
ip  then,  but  I 
[ip — has  never 

miss  him,  or 

I  have  been 
lin.  After  the 
ted  plantation- 
eft  behind  her 
they  would  be 

rou  gave,  and 
that  there  is 

•d.    He  gave 

to  his  mother, 
of  his  wife  and 

to  heaven,  as 
ke  left  but  the 
ly  be  wrong  to 


keep  him  from  'them  now,  but  he  is  only  a  little  fellow  and  he  loves  me  dearly.  I  have 
done  my  best  for  him :  I  have  taught  him  to  be  good.  No  one  can  say  a  word  against 
Toinette's  Philip ;  and  oh,  P&re  Josef,  I  just  feel  that  wljen  you  read  this  he  will  be 
alone  I  I  shall  be  gone  —  the  "  mammy  "  he  has  always  loved  and  obeyed.  Will  you 
do  your  best  for  the  child,  love  him,  comfort  him  —  he  will  be  so  unhappy  away  from 
me  ?  Of  course  these  letters  and  papers  must  be  sent  to  his  grandmother.  I  wonder  if 
she  will  love  him  as  I  have !  Oh,  P^re  Josef,  be  good  to  him  I  I  leave  him  in  your 
care ;  and  if  I  have  done  wrong  by  keeping  him,  forgive  me,  and  commend  me  to  the 
mercy  of  God. 

TOINETTE. 

When  Pftre  Josef  finished  Toinette's  letter,  he  furtively  wiped  a 
tear  from  his  thin  cheek ;  then,  after  looking  over  the  papers  care- 
fully, he  inclosed  all,  with  a  few  explanatory  lines  from  himself,  in  a 

strong  package,  which  he  addressed  to  Madam  Ainsworth,  "No. 

Madison  Avenue,  New  York." 


Chapter  XXIX 


THE    LITTLE    PILGRIMS 


IT  is  not  our  intention  to  follow  in  detail  the  wanderings  and  ad- 
ventures of  Philip  and  Lilybel.  Their  experiences  on  their  pil- 
grimage toward  the  city  of  their  destination  would  fill  too  many 
pages  for  our  purpose. 

When  Philip  went  forth  on  that  dreary  March  night,  with  P^re 
Josef's  "children"  and  his  little  bag  of  treasures,  he  had  formed  no 
plans  as  to  the  beginning  or  continuation  of  his  journey.  His  first 
idea  was  to  get  away,  his  second  was  to  get  to  New  Orleans.  The 
first  did  not  seem  so  difficult,  and  was  soon  put  into  execution ;  but 
the  latter  required  some  serious  consideration,  as  all  roads  do  not 
lead  to  that  fair  and  far  city  of  the  South. 

In  some  respects  a  pedestrian  journey  has  its  advantages.  One 
has  no  difficulty  in  choosing  between  sea  and  land,  or  deciding  be- 
tween rival  lines  of  steamers  and  railroads ;  but  it  is  very  important 
that  one  should  at  least  set  out  on  the  highway  that  leads  to  his 
destination. 

Lilybel  had  been  waiting  some  time  at  the  corner.  He  was 
sniffling  with  cold  and  impatience ;  he  also  carried  a  bundle,  but  his 
bundle  did  not  contain  sentimental  souvenirs  of  the  past  Philip  had 
not  neglected  the  subsistence  departmeint  of  the  expedition ;  he  had 
given  Lilybel  money  with  which  to  buy  provisions,  and  these  provi- 
sions were  tied  up  in  the  bundle,  and  consisted  of  bananas,  ginger- 
bread, and  popped  corn;  a  small  tin  bucket  filled  with  molasses 
completed  the  outfit 

i}6 


er-gou 

"Y 

walk  I 

withou 

briskly 

plainec 

As 

obliged 

therefo: 

The  fin 

be  artei 

an'  soni 

an'  wes 

Th 

unknow 

on  stur 

thick  lit 

Wl 

the  dar 

bornly 

er-gwin 

"Bu 

on;  the 

you,"  re 

"Id< 

gate-ke« 

reluctan 

unnoticc 

other  si( 


^■■*— ^^"rm 


tmtmmmutmimmmo. 


TOINETTES   PHILIP 


177 


rings  and  ad- 
on  their  pil- 
fill  too  many 

ht,  with  P^re 
ad  formed  no 
ey.  His  first 
)rleans.  The 
xecution;  but 
roads  do  not 

ntages.  One 
■  deciding  be- 
ery important 
t  leads  to  his 

ler.  He  was 
undle,  but  his 
t  Philip  had 
lition ;  he  had 
d  these  provi- 
lanas,  ginger- 
with  molasses 


"  Weil,"  said  Philip,  curtly,  on  seeing  him,  "are  you  ready?  " 
"  Yas,  Mars'  Philip,  I  's  ready,  I  's  got  ev'ryt'ing ;  but  be  wes 
er-goin'  ter  stay  out  all  night  in  der  rain  an'  col'  ?  " 

"Yes,  we  are,"  returned  Philip  decidedly;  "and  we  've  got  to 
walk  to  keep  warm.  Come  on,  let  's  start  for  the  ferry."  And 
without  further  parley  he  turned  his  face  toward  the  river  and  trotted 
briskly  along,  followed  by  Lilybel,  who  lagged  and  sniffed  and  com- 
plained of  the  cold,  pitifully. 

As  soon  as  Philip  had  started,  he  understood  that  he  would  be 
obliged  to  lead  the  expedition  as  well  as  to  supply  the  moral  force ; 
therefore  he  debated  in  his  mind  just  what  was  best  to  be  done. 
The  first  thing  was  to  get  away  from  the  city  —  "  Or  the  bobbies  '11 
be  arter  us,"  Lilybel  said,  between  his  sniffs,  "  an*  we  '11  be  cotched 
an'  sont  back,  an'  dey  '11  put  us  in  der  p'lice-station  ferrunnin'  erway, 
an'  wes  '11  never  git  out." 

This  possibility  really  alarmed  Philip.  In  spite  of  the  dreadful 
unknown  before  him,  he  did  not  wish  to  be  sent  back,  so  he  pressed 
on  sturdily  toward  the  ferry.  He  was  neither  cold  nor  wet;  his 
thick  little  coat  shed  the  rain,  and  his  heart  was  warm  with  hope. 
When  they  reached  the  ferry-slip,  and  Lilybel  saw  the  boat  and 
the  dark  waters  of  the  North  River,  he  hung  back,  saying  stub- 
bornly: "I  ain't  er-gwine  on  any  steamboat  ter  New  'leens I  's 

er-gwine  ter  walk,  I  is." 

"  But  you  must  cross  the  ferry  first ;  this  is  only  a  ferry.  Come 
on ;  the  boat  is  about  starting.  If  you  don't  come  I  '11  go  without 
you,"  returned  Philip  decidedly. 

"  I  don't  wanter,"  sniffled  Lilybel,  as  Philip  gave  his  tickets  to  the 
gate-keeper,  and  at  the  same  time  with  an  energetic  push  thrust  the 
reluctant  little  darky  into  the  thickest  of  the  crowd,  and  so  passed  on 
unnoticed  in  the  darkness.  When  they  were  once  safely  on  the 
other  side  Philip  walked  a  little  slower ;  he  was  formulating  a  plan 


*^ 


r~ 


178 


TOINETTES   PHILIP 


in  his  mind.  With  an  intelligence  beyond  his  years,  he  felt  that  it 
would  not  be  well  at  first  to  make  such  inquiries  as  would  cause  any 
one  to  suspect  his  destination.  If  he  was  not  very  discreet  he  might 
furnish  a  clue  that  would  lead  to  his  being  overtaken  and  sent  back. 
Therefore  he  determined  not  to  ask  for  directions  which  would 
awaken  suspicion.  He  remembered  distinctly  two  places  which  he 
had  passed  through  on  his  way  North  with  his  adoptive  parents. 
One  was  Chattanooga.  It  was  impressed  on  his  mind  because  they 
remained  there  in  order  to  visit  Lookout  Mountain,  the  scene  of  the 
••  battle  in  the  clouds."  The  other  was  Washington ;  Mrs.  Ains- 
worth  had  told  him  that  it  was  the  capital  of  the  country.  If  they 
passed  through  those  cities  to  come  to  New  York,  they  could  go 
South  by  the  same  route.  So  he  decided  to  begin  by  inquiring  the 
way  to  Washington. 

So  full  of  determination,  so  brave  and  hopeful  was  the  boy, 
that  he  would  not  have  been  daunted  or  discouraged  had  he  known 
of  the  long,  weary  days,  weeks,  and  even  months  when  he  must 
always  be  moving  on,  of  the  cold,  hunger,  pain,  and  suffering  he 
must  endure,  the  hills,  valleys,  and  forests,  the  rivers  and  lakes  he 
must  cross,  before  he  could  reach  his  desired  haven. 

When  the  night  was  half  spent,  the  two  little  pilgrims  found 
themselves  beyond  the  blare  and  glare  of  Jersey  City  in  a  quiet  sleep- 
ing suburb.  Lilybel  was  exhausted,  and  declared  he  could  go  no 
farther ;  so  they  sat  down  on  the  steps  of  a  half-finished  house  and 
munched  a  piece  of  the  black  gingerbread  and  a  banana,  after  which 
Lilybel  crawled  under  the  steps  among  a  pile  of  shavings,  and  was 
soon  in  the  land  of  dreams,  where  one  is  seldom  tired,  cold,  and 
hungry. 

For  some  time  Philip  sat  in  the  silence  and  looked  at  the 
stars.  "  There  's  the  Dipper,"  he  said  to  himself;  "  Mammy  used 
to  show  it  to  me.     It 's  just  as  bright  here,  and  just  as  near,  so  it 


y 


-'''^>>w«««MiMHWWM 


MdL 


iiai»^=.:. 


he  felt  that  it 
lid  cause  any 
■eet  he  might 
nd  sent  back, 
which  would 
ces  which  he 
>tive  parents, 
because  they 
;  scene  of  the 
;  Mrs.  Ains- 
try.  If  they 
ley  could  go 
inquiring  the 

vas  the  boy, 
ad  he  known 
hen  he  must 
suffering  he 
and  lakes  he 

ilgrims  found 
a  quiet  sleep- 
could  go  no 
:d  house  and 
i,  after  which 
ngs,  and  was 
ed,  cold,  and 

>oked  at  the 
Mammy  used 
IS  near,  so  it 


TOINKTTES   PHILIP 


1^9 


can't  be  far  to  New  Orleans;  and  there  's  the  Little  Bear— it 
used  to  be  right  over  the  Pittosporum-tree  in  Mammy's  garden. 
It  looks  just  the  same  as  it  did  then,  and  if  's  shining  there  and 
here  at  the  same  time."    Sitting  alone  in   the   dark,  with   P^re 


"LILYBEL    RUBBED    HIS    EYES    AND    YAWNED,  WHILE    PHIUP    SHOOK    HIM    VIOOHOUSLY. " 

Josefs  "children"  hugged  close  to  him,  he  felt  that  he  had  seen 
old  friends  in  the  Dipper  and  the  Little  Bear;  that  he  would 
have  their  company  on  his  long  journey  back  to  his  home.     He 


SpMMttiMMi 


m 


"I 


m 


i< 


llill 


1 80 


TOINETTES   PHILIP 


thought  the  way  could  not  seem  so  long  and  dreary  when  they 
were  shining  above  him.  After  awhile  he  felt  cold  and  his  eyes 
grew  heavy  with  sleep.  So  he  crawled  under  the  steps  beside 
Lilybel,  who  was  in  a  comfortable  nest  of  shavings,  and  placing 
the  "children"  between  them,  and  his  treasures  under  his  head, 
he  contentedly  followed  his  little  companion  into  the  enchanting 
land  of  dreams. 

At  th**  earliest  peep  of  day  Philip  was  awakened  by  the  scamper- 
ing of  the  "  children  "  in  the  cage.  They  were  up  early,  and  were 
indulging  in  a  game  of  Colin- Maillard.  Lilybel  was  still  sleeping, 
and  was  safe  to  sleep  all  day  if  he  was  not  disturbed. 

"Why,  Mars'  Philip,  it  ain't  time  to  git  up!"  he  cried,  dolorously, 
rubbing  his  eyes  and  yawning,  while  Philip  shook  him  vigorously. 

"  Yes,  it  is ;  now  hurry  and  eat  your  breakfast,  and  we  '11  start 
right  off  before  any  one  is  about." 

Philip  gave  the  "  children  "  a  few  grains  of  popped  corn,  and  ate 
a  banana  with  a  very  poor  appetite,  while  Lilybel  fared  sumptuously 
on  a  huge  piece  of  gingerbread ;  then  after  making  their  toilet, 
which  consisted  in  brushing  off  the  clinging  shavings  and  sawdust, 
they  went  on  their  way — but  not  rejoicing. 

The  morning  was  cold  and  gray.  Philip's  head  ached  and  his 
feet  felt  like  lead,  but  still  he  must  press  on,  he  must  not  give  up 
when  he  had  just  begun  the  journey.  Later,  they  stopped  at  a 
farm-house  to  ask  for  some  water.  It  was  breakfast-time,  and  the 
kind-hearted  mother  of  a  little  boy  gave  them  each  a  hot  buttered 
roll  and  a  cup  of  steaming  coffee.  This  good  fare  cheered  and 
encouraged  them  considerably,  and  they  pressed  on  in  quite  a 
cheerful  mood. 

All  day  they  walked,  Philip  resolutely,  Lilybel  laggingly. 
When  they  inquired  the  way  to  Washington,  some  laughed  and 
some  said :  "  Keep  straight  ahead  and  you  '11  get  there  in  a  week 


1  dreary  when  they 
It  cold  and  his  eyes 
er  the  steps  beside 
lavings,  and  placing 
res  under  his  head, 
into  the  enchanting 

ened  by  the  scamper- 

2  up  early,  and  were 
el  was  still  sleeping, 
disturbed. 

he  cried,  dolorously, 
lok  him  vigorously. 
:fast,  and  we  11  start 

popped  corn,  and  ate 
3el  fared  sumptuously 

making  their  toilet, 
davings  and  sawdust, 

s  head  ached  and  his 
he  must  not  give  up 
r,  they  stopped  at  a 
■eakfast-time,  and  the 
1  each  a  hot  buttered 
od  fare  cheered  and 
essed  on   in   quite  a 

y,  Lilybel  laggingly. 
n,  some  laughed  and 
1  get  there  in  a  week 


TOINETTES   PHILIP 


l8l 


or  so."  Others  told  them  they  did  n't  know  the  way,  that  it  was 
too  far  to  walk  there,  and  that  they  had  better  go  by  rail,  and  so 
on.  Philip  thanked  them  all  with  a  gentle  smile  and  trotted  on 
serenely;  but  the  day  seemed  the  longest  day  that  he  had  ever 

spent. 

When  night  came  on,  they  were  near  a  railroad-station  on  the 
outskirts  of  a  small  village.  Philip  was  very  hungry,  for  he  had 
eaten  nothing  since  morning;  but  Lilybel  had  supplied  himself  by 
lightening  his  bundle  to  such  an  extent  that  nothing  remained  but 
a  handful  of  popped  com,  and  for  this  dry  fare  Philip  had  no  appe- 
tite. When  they  reached  the  station,  a  freight-train  was  pulled  up 
on  the  track,  and  it  seemed  to  be  waiting  for  the  engine  in  order 
to  start.  Two  men  were  in  the  caboose,  and  as  Philip  was  about 
to  pass,  he  looked  wistfully  at  them.  They  were  eating  supper, 
and  had  a  pot  of  coffee  between  them.  The  tired  boy  craved  some 
of  the  grateful  beverage,  but  he  did  not  like  to  beg,  so  he  drew 
out  a  dime  and  asked  them  very  politely  if  they  would  sell  him 
some. 

The  men  laughed  heartily.  "Why,  my  little  man,  we  don't 
keep  a  cofifee-stand ;  but  I  guess  we  can  give  you  some."  So  they 
poured  out  a  large  tin  cup  full.  It  was  strong  and  sweet,  but  it  was 
not  Mocha;  yet  Philip  thought  he  had  never  tasted  better.  He 
gratefully  drank  half,  and  gave  the  remainder  to  Lilybel. 

The  little  negro  had  been  regarding  the  bread  and  bacon  with 
an  eloquent  look,  which  the  kind-hearted  men  appreciated.  After 
the  coffee  disappeared,  each  little  pilgrim  received  a  generous 
plate  of  food,  which  they  devoured  eagerly.  "  Hunger  is  the  best 
sauce."  Philip  relished  his  supper  as  he  never  did  a  meal  served  on 
Madam  Ainsworth's  dainty  china  by  the  capable  and  stately  Bassett. 

After  they  had  eaten,  Philip  thanked  the  men  politely,  and  was 
about  to  move  on. 


•i;-,- 


iiM 


182 


TOINETTES   PHILIP 


ilii 


"Where  are  you  goin',  little  fellows?"  asked  one,  rough-look- 
ing without,  but  pure  gold  within. 

•'  We  're  going  to  Washington,"  replied  Philip,  readily. 
"  Holy  Moses !     Ye  are ?     How  yer  goin'?  " 
"  We  're  going  to  walk,"  said  Philip,  undaunted. 
"  When  do  ye  expect  to  git  there  ? " 
"  Oh,  I  don't  know ;  to-morrow,  perhaps." 

«'  Ha  ha!  Well,  git  in  here  an'  come  along  with  us,  and  ye  will; 
but  if  ye  walk,  it  '11  take  a  month,  an'  yer  shoes  '11  be  all  wore  out." 
Philip  and  Lilybel  scrambled  into  the  caboose  with  alacrity  and 
delight.  The  kind  occupants  gave  them  a  litrie  bunk  in  the  corner, 
where  they  slept  comfortably;  and  in  the  morning  they  were  in 
Washington,  much  to  their  satisfaction. 

Philip  would  have  liked  to  show  the  kind  men  the  "children, 
but  he  was  afraid  to  do  so;  he  was  wise  enough  to  know  that  they 
would  be  another  means  of  tracing  him.  So  he  could  only  thank  his 
hospitable  hosts  very  warmly  as  he  walked  away  with  a  light  heart. 
'<  See  here,  Lilybel,"  he  said  confidently  to  his  companion,  "now 
we  're  a  good  long  way  from  New  York,  we  need  n't  be  in  such  a 
hurry.  I  've  got  some  money,  and  we  '11  stay  here  and  rest  awhile." 
"  An'  yer  can  make  lots  more  a-showin'  dem  little  mices,"  sug- 
gested Lilybel,  with  a  delighted  grin.  "  Did  n't  I  tole  yer  wes  'd  git 
lots  er  lifts  on  dem  trains?    I  guess  now  we  won't  have  ter  walk  no 

more."  .,,.11-1 

Philip  was  very  hopeful;  he  quite  agreed  with  Lilybel  —  every- 
thing was  going  so  well.     It  would  be  very  easy  to  get  home,  after 
all ;  so  they  sallied  forth  to  see  the  city  with  the  confidence  and  care 
lessness  of  a  couple  of  young  millionaires  out  for  a  holiday. 


m 


mwiMMM 


,  rough-look- 
lily. 


Chapter  XXX 


s,  and  ye  will; 

all  wore  out.' 
th  alacrity  and 
;  in  the  corner, 

they  were  in 

the  "children," 
:now  that  they 
i  only  thank  his 
li  a  light  heart, 
mpanion,  "now 
't  be  in  such  a 
nd  rest  awhile." 
tie  mices,"  sug- 
e  yer  wes  *d  git 
ave  ter  walk  no 

ilybel  — every- 
get  home,  after 
dence  and  care 
oliday. 


MADAM   AINSWORTH   RECEIVES   A   PACKAGE   OF   LETTERS 

PHILIP  had  been  gone  a  month.  Mrs.  Ainsworth  had  been  very 
anxious  and  unhappy,  and  had  certainly  done  all  that  she 
could  in  the  absence  of  her  husband  and  in  the  face  of  her 
mother-in-law's  constant  discouragement.  A  great  many  letters 
had  passed  between  the  detective  employed  and  Mr.  Ainsworth ;  the 
latter,  remembering  Lilybel's  former  methods  of  traveling,  thought 
that  the  little  negro,  who  had  also  disappeared,  had  induced  Philip 
to  hide  with  him  on  an  outward-bound  steamer,  and  that  they  were 
doubdess  in  New  Orleans;  but  communications  with  the  captains 
of  the  different  steamers  and  the  police  of  that  city  convinced  them 
that  the  children  had  not  gone  by  sea,  nor  had  they,  as  far  as  he 
and  the  detective  could  learn,  returned  to  their  former  home. 

Madam  Ainsworth,  who  was  not  at  all  anxious  to  have  them 
discovered,  was  of  the  opinion  that  they  had  never  left  New  York, 
and  she  was  in  daily  fear  that  they  would  unexpectedly  turn  up,  and 
that  Philip  would  be  forgiven  and  taken  back.  However,  as  weeks 
passed  away  she  began  to  feel  easier,  and  was  more  than  vexed  at 
her  daughter-in-law  for  being  anxious  and  worried  about  what  she 
termed  "  unexpected  good  fortune."  They  had  got  rid  of  the  little 
waif  through  no  fault  of  theirs ;  they  had  not  turned  him  off.  He 
had  gone  of  his  own  free  will,  and  they  were  not  in  any  way  respon- 
sible for  it.  She  did  not  see  why  they  should  search  for  him  and 
want  him  back.      If  they  succeeded   in   finding  him,   he  would 

i>3 


• 


wop 


184 


TOINETTES   PHILIP 


lit, 


f  ill 


' 


probably  run  away  again,  and  they  would  have  a  repetition  of  all 
the  trouble  and  expense.  There  was  no  doubt  that  the  boy  was 
something  of  a  vagabond,  and  as  he  grew  older  he  would  be  more 
unruly  and  troublesome ;  therefore  they  were  well  rid  of  him  before 
he  should  disgrace  them. 

These  were  the  specious  arg^uments  which  she  used  with  her 
daughter-in-law,  and  with  which  she  quieted  her  own  conscience; 
for  now  and  then,  in  spite  of  her  coldness  and  indifference,  she  had 
little  twinges  which  made  her  very  uncomfortable.  Suddenly  the 
boy's  handsome  face  would  come  before  her ;  she  would  think  of  his 
merry  laugh,  his  gentle,  kindly  ways,  and  even  his  little  mischievous 
tricks  now  made  her  smile  and  sigh  at  the  same  time.  She  remem- 
bered the  day  when  he  pleaded  so  earnestly  for  P^re  Josef's  "  chil- 
dren," and  the  touching  tone  in  his  voice  that  had  moved  her  so, 
and  brought  back  the  pain  of  an  old  sorrow.  And  toward  the  last, 
just  before  he  went  away,  he  looked  ill ;  sometimes  she  had  noticed 
a  flush  on  his  cheeks,  and  an  unnatural  brightness  in  his  eyes.  Per- 
haps exposure  and  want  had  killed  him,  and  even  now  his  little 
•  neglected  body  might  be  lying  in  some  unknown  grave.  These 
memories  and  fancies  increased  day  by  day.  In  spite  of  her  satisfac- 
tion at  his  continued  absence,  the  boy  interested  her,  and  occupied 
her  thoughts  away  more  than  he  had  when  he  was  with  her. 

One  morning,  when  she  sat  down  to  her  writing-table  to  open 
her  letters,  she  saw  on  the  top  of  the  pile  a  large,  strange-looking 
package  addressed  to  her  in  an  unknown  hand. 

Her  fingers  trembled  a  little  as  she  broke  the  strong  seal,  and 
the  first  object  within  the  cover  that  met  her  eye  was  a  letter  that 
bore  her  name  in  writing  that  she  remembered  too  well  —  the  writ- 
ing of  her  son,  her  Philip,  who  for  ten  long  years  had  sent  her  no 
missive  to  break  the  solemn  silence  between  them.  It  was  like  a 
voice  from  the  grave.    With  an  awed  face  she  opened  it,  and  read 


i*£Si;*S»HJ*fii*V 


TOINETTES   PHILIP 


185 


etition  of  all 

the  boy  was 

)uld  be  more 

of  him  before 

sed  with  her 
1  conscience; 
ence,  she  had 
Suddenly  the 
d  think  of  his 
e  mischievous 

She  remem- 
Josef's  "chil- 
noved  her  so, 
ward  the  last, 
le  had  noticed 
is  eyes.  Per- 
now  his  little 
krave.  These 
if  her  satisfac- 

and  occupied 
h  her. 

table  to  open 
range-looking 

rong  seal,  and 
s  a  letter  that 
ell  —  the  writ;- 
d  sent  her  no 
It  was  like  a 
:d  it,  and  read 


the  confession  of  his  marriage,  the  tender  passionate  appeal  to  his 
mother  for  his  wife  and  child. 

Why  had  this  been  kept  from  her  for  all  these  years?  Who 
had  dared  to  do  it  ?  And  a  feeling  of  resentment  was  mingled  with 
her  sorrow  and  surprise.  One  after  another  she  unfolded  and  read 
the  papers:  her  son's  tender  little  notes  to  the  girl  he  loved,  P^re 
Josefs  explanatory  letter,  and,  last  of  all,  Toinette's  touching 
confession. 

There  it  all  lay  before  her,  the  history  of  these  young  lives :  the 
joys,  the  sorrows,  the  hopes  and  ambitions,  ending  in  a  mournful 
tragedy,  which'  seemed  unreal  and  almost  impossible  because  of  its 
remoteness.  Unknown  to  her,  her  son  was  married  a  year  or  more 
before  his  death.  The  swift  memory  of  that  awful  day  when  she 
was  told  that  he  had  fallen  wrung  her  heart  with  pain.  He  had 
been  taken  away  in  the  flush  of  youth  and  love,  and  his  young  wife 
had  followed  him ;  but  the  child, — where  was  the  child?  They  spoke 
of  Philip's  child,  her  grandson,  the  eldest  Ainsworth.  Why  had 
they  kept  him  from  her  all  these  years?  Who  had  done  it?  Where 
was  he  ? —  and  why  were  these  letters  sent  to  her  now  ? 

Her  mind  was  in  a  state  of  terrible  confusion.  Again  she  read 
Toinette's  letter,  again  Pfere  Josefs,  slowly  and  more  carefully. 
Suddenly,  and  with  awful  force,  the  truth  burst  upon  her.  Toinette  's 
Philip  —  that  boy  her  son  had  adopted  —  the  little  waif,  the  vaga- 
bond, the  despised  and  rejected  —  was  her  son's  child,  her  grandson! 
The  blood  that  flowed  in  his  veins  was  hers  —  he  was  her  very  own, 
and  she  had  driven  him  away  to  ruin,  and,  perhaps,  to  death ! 

It  was  an  awful  moment  for  her.  Pride  and  composure  were 
forgotten ;  she  was  very  human  and  weak  in  her  remorse  and  sorrow. 
With  a  cry  of  distress  that  brought  Mrs.  Ainsworth  to  the  room,  she 
threw  herself  back  in  her  chair  and  burst  into  tears. ' 

"  What  is  it  ?    Oh,  what  has  happened  ?  "  cried  Mrs.  Ainsworth 


i86 


TOINETTE'S   PHILIP 


in  terror;  she  had  never  seen  the  stately  old  lady  weep,  and  the 
sight  of  her  sorrow  was  extremely  touching. 

"Laura,  oh,  Laura,  how  can  I  ever  forgive  myself?"  she  ex- 
claimed, when  she  saw  bending  over  her  the  pale,  pitying  face  c.  her 
daughter-in-law.  "What  can  we  do?  How  can  we  find  him? 
That  boy,  that  child  that  I  have  driven  away,  is  Philip's  son —  my 

poor  Philip's  son." 

"What?      Who?"    interrupted    Mrs.   Ainsworth,   wildly.      She 
thought  the  old  lady  had  suddenly  gone  insane. 

But  Madam  Ainsworth  did  not  heed  the  interruption  nor  the 
question.     "Oh,  I  am  fearfully  punished,"  she  went  on  excitedly. 
"There  are  all  the  certificates  —  the  letters.     Look  at  them;  read 
them.     They  tell  everything;  they  are  as  clear  as  day.     See  what 
I  have  brought  upon  myself.     I  was  proud,  cold,  wicked ;  I  would 
not  listen  to  the  pleadings  of  my  heart.     I  felt  for  that  child.     I 
had  to  struggle  with  myself  not  to  love  him.     It  was  the  old  bitter 
prejudice,  the  hatred  for  what  had  caused  the  sorrow  of  my  life. 
If  he  had  come  from  any  other  place  on  earth  I  might  have  done 
him  justice;  but  I  said,  like  those  of  old,  '  Can  there  anything  good 
come  out  of  Nazareth? '  and  I  rejected  him,  although  something  told 
me  that  there  was  a  tie  between  us.     Oh,  I  felt  it  that  day  when 
I  was  cruel  to  him;  when  he  pleaded  so  pitifully  for  his  little  pets. 
It  was  the  very  tone  of  voice,  the  very  expression,  of  my  Philip, 
when  I  used  to  reprove  him  for  some  childish  fault.     Poor  little  soul, 
I  pitied  him ;  but  I  almost  broke  his  heart  and  my  own  with  my 

stubborn  pride." 

While  Madam  Ainsworth  was  pouring  out  her  bitter  self-accu- 
sations, Mrs.  Ainsworth  was  looking  over  the  letters  and  papers 
with  a  puzzled,  bewildered  air.  "  Oh,"  she  said  at  length,  "  it  must 
be  true;  he  must  be  Captain  Ainsworth's  child.  Edward  felt  it 
when  he  first  saw  him.     It  was  the  resemblance  to  his  brother  that 


n 


■Vt«iiK.Ui.?y5;o:» 


f 


TOINETTE  S   PHILIP 


187 


reep,  and  the 

;lf?"  she  ex- 
ng  face  c/  her 
ve  find  him? 
ip's  son  —  my 

wildly.      She 

ption  nor  the 

on  excitedly, 
at  them;  read 
ay.  See  what 
eked ;  I  would 

that  child.  I 
i  the  old  bitter 
)w  of  my  life, 
xht  have  done 
anything  good 
something  told 
that  day  when 

his  little  pets. 

of  my  Philip, 
Poor  little  soul, 
r  own  with  my 

)itter  self-accu- 
;rs  and  papers 
:ngth,  "  it  must 
Edward  felt  it 
his  brother  that 


made  him  love  the  boy ;  he  told  me  so  then ;  and  besides,  he  was 
so  like  our  boy.      I  was  always  surprised  that  you  could  not  see 


«'WHAT    IS    IT?    OH,  WHAT    HAS    HAPPENED?'    CRIED    MRS.    AINSWORTH." 

the  resemblance."     And  Mrs.  Ainsworth  wiped  away  the  tears  that 
filled  her  eyes.     "  But  what  can  we  do  ?     How  can  we  find  him  ? '' 


W- 


i.t 


lit' 


I'll 


V 


■'tm»:- 


r 


i88 


TOINETTE  S   PHILIP 


And  she  looked  helplessly  at  her  mother-in-law,  who  was  making 
a  desperate  effort  to  recover  her  composure. 

"  I  must  write  to  Edward  at  once ;  he  must  leave  that  business 
and  come  to  us,"  replied  Madam  Ainsworth,  decidedly.  "What 
does  it  matter  whether  we  lose  or  gain  money  while  Philip's  child 
is  drifting  about  the  world  exposed  to  want  and  sin?  Laura,  while 
I  am  writing  to  Edward  send  for  that  detective.  We  must  give 
him  more  money ;  we  must  make  greater  efforts ;  the  child  can  and 
must  be  found.  Until  I  see  him  again  I  can  never  know  peace  or 
happiness.  My  son  will  reproach  me  from  his  grave,  and  I  shall 
reproach  myself  as  long  as  I  live.  There  is  no  time  to  be  lost; 
we  must  begin  this  very  moment." 

And  the  ardor  and  energy  with  which  Madam  Ainsworth  put 
her  plans  into  execution  furnished  a  striking  contrast  to  her  former 
coldness  and  indifference. 


0  was  making 

that  business 
idly.  "  What 
:  Philip's  child 
Laura,  while 
^e  must  give 
:  child  can  and 
enow  peace  or 
e,  and  I  shall 
ne  to  be  lost; 

Ainsworth  put 
t  to  her  former 


Chapter  XXXI 


THEY   PRESS    ON 


THE  two  little  pilgrims  did  not  remain  long  in  Washington. 
Lilybel's  enormous  appetite  for  sweets,  and  his  fondness  for 
sight-seeing,  very  soon  depleted  Philip's  pocket-book,  which 
could  not  be  replenished  by  exhibiting  the  "children,"  as  the  little 
negro  had  proposed,  for  Philip  was  aware  that  the  little  cage  of 
white  mice  would  furnish  a  certain  means  of  identifying  them ;  so 
he  kept  them  carefully  covered,  and  seldom  allowed  them  to  be  seen. 
And  he  decided  in  the  future  to  avoid  large  cities,— they  offered 
too  many  temptations  to  Lilybel,— and  to  confine  himself  to  country 
roads  and  obscure  villages. 

So  they  set  forth  again,  as  bright  and  hopeful  as  at  first,  and 
drifted  on,  sometimes  a  wind  of  chance  blowing  them  in  the  right 
direction,  sometimes  in  the  wrong.  Still  they  progressed  slowly  but 
surely  toward  their  destination.  They  were  not  so  fortunate  in  get- 
ting "  lifts  "  as  Lilybel  had  predicted,  but  they  had  seldom  suffered  for 
food  and  shelter.  Lilybel's  tin  bucket,  which  he  clung  to  through  all 
vicissitudes,  had  usually  contained  something  eatable  upon  which  they 
could  fall  back  in  an  emergency.  When  some  generous  housewife 
would  give  them  more  than  they  could  eat  at  one  meal,  the  remainder 
went  into  the  bucket  to  furnish  subsistence  on  a  long  march  from 
one  point  of  supply  to  another. 

As  they  went  south  the  weather  became  milder,  and  they  did 
not  suffer  much  from  cold.  Very  early  in  the  march  Lilybel  and 
his  shoes  parted  company,  which  was  no  hardship  to  the  little  darky, 

189 


^* 


190 


TOINETTE  S    I'HILIP 


whose  feet  were  as  tough  as  leather  and  as  hard  as  bone.  But 
Philip,  after  being  daintily  shod  for  so  long,  when  obliged  to  part 
with  his  foot-covering  suffered  terribly  from  blisters  and  wounds 
caused  by  constantly  tramping  over  rough  roads.  At  times,  when 
he  found  it  impossible  to  take  another  step,  he  would  sit  down  dis- 
heartened and  declare  he  could  go  no  farther.  Then  Lilybel  would 
encourage  him  by  telling  him  that  he  "  saw  er  smoke,"  or  "  heard 
er  train  " ;  therefore  they  must  be  near  a  house  or  a  railroad  where 
they  could  rest  and  procure  assistance.  Then  Philip,  very  pale  and 
with  compressed  lips,  would  struggle  up  and  press  on ;  and  if  he 
failed  utterly,  Lilybel  would  supplement  the  exhausted  physical  force 
by  carrying  his  companion  on  his  back,  with  a  sturdy  determination 
and  strength  wonderful  in  such  a  mite. 

But  Philip  was  very  thin  and  light.  In  fact,  he  seemed  to  wt/i 
away  day  by  day  until,  as  he  sometimes  said  laughingly,  there  was 
nothing  of  him  but  clothes,  and  these  too  were  beginning  to  wilt; 
a  hole  here,  a  rent  there,  a  tatter  left  on  a  bush,  a  scrap  jagged 
off  by  pushing  through  a  hedge  or  climbing  a  rude  fence,  told  him 
that  soon  his  garments  would  be  in  the  condition  of  Lilybel's. 

If  Madam  Ains worth  could  have  caught  a  glimpse  of  Philip 
after  six  weeks  of  wandering,  her  opinion  that  he  was  a  >?<j;abond 
would  have  been  fully  confirmed  by  his  appearance.  Bui  in  spite 
of  the  hardships  endured  by  the  little  pilgrims,  P^re  Josefs  "chil- 
dren "  fared  sumptuously  every  day.  They  had  plenty  to  eat,  they 
were  warm,  and  well  cared  for,  and,  on  the  whole,  preferred  swinging 
along  over  the  road,  with  occasional  glimpses  of  sunlight  and  blue 
skies,  to  being  shut  up  in  a  close,  dim  room,  and  they  were  as  merry 
as  ever;  they  played  their  little  games,  and  performed  their  sprightly 
tricks  readily  and  often,  and  often  furnished  their  small  share  to 
the  general  fund  by  bringing  in  coppers  and  nickels,  which  Lily- 
bel delighted  to  collect  in  his  cap,  after  the  manner  of  itinerant 


TOINETTE  S    PHILIP 


191 


as  bone.  But 
>bliged  to  part 
s  and  wounds 
\t  times,  when 
i  sit  down  dis- 

Lilybel  would 
ke,"  or  ••  heard 
railroad  where 

very  pale  and 
on ;  and  if  he 
1  physical  force 
'  determination 

seemed  to  wt/t 
igly,  there  was 
inning  to  wilt; 

1  scrap  jagged 
fence,  told  him 
)f  Lilybel's. 
mpse  of  Philip 
^as  a  >?fj;abond 

But  in  spite 

2  Josefs  "chil- 
ity  to  eat,  they 
'erred  swinging 
ilight  and  blue 

were  as  merry 

their  sprightly 

small  share  to 

:1s,  which  Lily- 

ler  of  itinerant 


showmen ;  and  the  farther  they  went  South  the  more  frequent  these 
exhibitions  became,  until  they  were  rarely  without  small  sums  of 
money ;  but  owing  to  Lilybel's  fondness  for  luxuries  and  contempt 
for  essentials,  they  never  could  get  enough  ahead  to  supply  them- 
selves with  all  necessities.  However,  they  drifted  on,  laughing  one 
day,  and  crying  the  next ;  overfed  at  one  meal,  and  hungry  for  days 
together;  one  night  cold,  with  only  the  skies  for  a  covering,  an- 
other housed  under  some  hospitable  roof. 

When  Philip  asked  for  shelter  and  food  he  was  seldom  refused. 
The  pretty,  gentle  little  fellow,  with  his  droll  black  companion,  ex- 
cited interest  in  every  one ;  and  when  some,  curious  to  know  the 
why  of  this  peculiar  partnership,  questioned  Philip,  he  would  smil- 
ingly reply,  ••  Oh,  he  's  my  friend."  And  that  was  all  the  informa- 
tion he  would  give. 

One  night  darkness  overtook  them  among  the  mountains  of 
.ennessee.  It  was  in  April,  but  it  was  keenly  cold  on  the  hills. 
The  stars  glittered  brightly;  the  air  was  full  of  frost;  the  dry 
branches  and  leaves  crackled  and  rustled  around  them.  They  were 
on  a  mountain  road  climbing  toilsomely  up  and  up,  and  they  did 
not  know  just  where  they  were ;  but  they  were  confident  that  if 
they  kept  to  the  highway  it  would  lead  to  some  place.  At  last 
they  could  go  no  farther,  and  they  sat  down  in  the  dark  quite  ex- 
hausted. They  were  cold  and  hungry,  and,  unfortunately,  Lilybel's 
bucket  was  empty. 

After  resting  for  a  few  moments,  they  drew  some  dead  leaves 
and  branches  together  under  the  shelter  of  a  tree,  and  with  the 
"children"  between  them,  they  lay  down  in  their  little  nest  quite 
contentedly.  Scarcely  had  they  composed  themselves  to  sleep  when 
they  heard  something  among  the  bushes  cautiously  approaching 
them ;  a  soft,  regular  tramp,  a  rustling  of  leaves,  and  then  a  certain 
slow  measured  breathing ;  some  living  thing  was  very  near  them. 


■»fl^V!: 


« 
« 


193 


TOINETTES    PHILIP 


Lilybel  started  up  in  terror,  and  his  eyes  gleamed  white  in 
the  darlcness.  "  A  b'ar !  It 's  a  b'ar  ! "  he  cried,  scrambling  for  his 
life  up  the  tree.  "Cum,  quick!— cum!"  he  called  back  to  Philip, 
"  Cum  quick,  er  he  '11  cotch  yer  an'  eat  yer." 

"  I  can't ;  how  can  I  climb  a  tree  with  the  '  children '  ?     And  I 
won't  leave  them,"  replied  Philip,  resolutely. 

"  It 's  a  b'ar  fer  shore ;  I  done  heard  him  growl,"  insisted  Lilybel. 

"  Oh,  nonsense  ! "  said  Philip,  skeptically.     "  I  've  got  a  match, 
and  I  'm  going  to  see  just  what  it  is." 

At  that  moment  a  large  dark  form  was  visible  amid  the 
bushes,  and  a  warm  breath  swept  over  the  boy's  cheek.  He  struck 
the  match  and  waited  for  it  to  blaze ;  then  he  exclaimed  joyfully, 
"  It 's  a  cow  !     It 's  only  a  cow." 

"  Is  it  er-chawin'  gum  ? "  asked  Lilybel,  cautiously,  "  'Ca'se  if 
it  's  er-chawin*  gum  it 's  er  tame  cow,  an'  I  ain't  afeard." 

"  It 's  chewing  something,"  said  Philip.  "  Come  down ;  it  is  n't 
going  to  hurt,  you." 

"  Not  if  it  's  er  tame  cow,"  replied  Lilybel,  coming  down  more 
slowly  than  he  went  up.  "  Let 's  make  er  fire  so  's  I  can  see,  an' 
I  '11  milk  her.     I  knows  how  ter  milk  er  tame  cow." 

But  Philip  had  no  more  matches,  and  they  lay  down  again 
to  wait  for  morning,  with  the  gentle,  motherly  creature  near  them. 
It  gave  Philip  a  feeling  of  safety  and  comfort,  and  he  would  soon 
have  been  asleep  had  not  Lilybel  begun  to  whimper  with  the  cold : 
"I  's  mos'  froze;  I  's  mos'  dade." 

"Here,  take  my  coat,"  said  Philip;  "I  'm  not  very  cold." 

"  No,  I  won't,  Mars'  Philip ;  you  's  sick,  an'  you  's  col'  too.  1 
won't  take  yer  coat." 

Perhaps  Lilybel  was  beginning  to  understand  dimly  something 
of  the  beauty  of  unselfishness ;  for  he  complained  no  more,  but  bur- 
rowed deeper  into  his  nest  of  leaves,  and  was  soon  sleeping  soundly. 


med  white  in 
mbling  for  his 
ack  to  Philip. 

ren  *  ?     And  1 

sisted  Lilybd. 
got  a  match, 

ble  amid  the 
k.  He  struck 
limed  joyfully, 

y,     "  'Ca'se  if 

lard." 

lown ;  it  is  n't 

\g  down  more 
I  can  see,  an' 

y  down  again 
ire  near  them. 
he  would  soon 
with  the  cold : 

ry  cold." 

's  col*  too.     1 

mly  something 
more,  but  bur- 
eping  soundly. 


i     -U 


^*s. 


Mil 
I'll 


)  ! 


\ 


«r  I 


TOINETTE'S   PHILIP 


195 


Then  Philip  softly  removed  his  coat,— he  had  a  jacket  under  it,— and 
laid  it  over  the  little  negro,  and  tucked  it  around  him  gently ;  after 
which  he  nestled  down  with  his  arm  around  the  little  cage,  and 
slept  a  restless,  feverish  sleep. 

When  he  awoke  it  was  dawn,  and  he  was  benumbed  with  cold ; 
his  feet  and  hands  ached  pitifully,  his  head  throbbed  and  whirled, 
and  for  a  moment  he  felt  that  he  could  not  stand  up ;  but  at  last, 
with  a  great  effort,  he  got  upon  his  feet,  and  shook  off*  the  weak- 
ness which  was  daily  gaining  on  him. 

The  gentle  cow  was  still  near  them,  and  Lilybel  was  soon  draw- 
ing into  his  tin  bucket  a  generous  stream  of  warm  milk,  of  which 
they  drank  freely.  When  they  had  taken  all  they  wished,  the  prac- 
tical little  negro  filled  the  bucket  for  future  use. 

This  grateful  beverage  refreshed  and  cheered  Philip,  and  he 
was  about  to  start  forth  more  hopefully;  but,  to  his' surprise  and 
distress,  when  he  uncovered  the  cage  of  the  "  children  "  he  found  poor 
little  Boule-de-Neige  lying  stark  and  dead.  She  was  always  more 
delicate  than  the  others,  and  in  spite  of  her  name,  the  tender  little 
sprite  had  succumbed  to  the  cold.  It  was  the  first  accident  to  the 
"children,"  and  Philip  grieved  sorely  over  the  tiny  dead  thing.  He 
could  not  bear  to  leave  it  behind,  so  he  put  it  within  his  jacket, 
hoping  the  warmth  might  revive  it;  and  after  protecting  the  others 
as  well  as  he  could,  the  litde  pilgrims  set  forth  on  their  wearisome 
journey  with  heavy,  sorrowful  hearts. 


I 


Chapter  XXXII 


THE   SWEET-OLIVE   IS   IN    BLOOM 


IT  was  the  time  of  the  sweet-olive  and  jasmine  when  the  little 
pilgrims  neared  their  journey's  end.     For  fully  two  months  they 
had  been  on  their  wearisome  way,  and  every  day  their  difficulties 
and  sufferings  had  increased  because  of  Philip's  failing  strength. 

Exposure,  hunger,  and  cold  had  done  their  work  on  the  delicate 
frame  of  the  boy,  until  he  grew  so  thin  and  wan  that  one  looking  at 
him  would  have  said  that  his  days  were  numbered.  Toward  the  last 
it  was  almost  impossible  for  him  to  walk  any  distance  without  rest- 
ing ;  he  complained  of  feeling  tired  and  sleepy,  but  never  hungry, 
and  had  it  not  been  for  the  kind  country  people  who  gave  them  a 
"  lift "  now  and  then  on  their  carts,  and  the  good-natured  conductors 
on  the  different  freight-trains,  who  helped  them  along  from  one  place 
to  another,  Philip  would  have  fallen  by  the  way,  and  his  weary  little 
body  would  have  been  left  behind  asleep  in  some  obscure  grave.  In 
spite  of  the  boy's  physical  weakness  his  moral  courage  never  failed; 
he  was  as  hopeful,  as  confident,  as  cheerful  as  when  they  first  set 
forth..  Sometimes  he  would  start  out  with  feverish  energy.  "  I  'm  not 
sick,"  he  would  say  resolutely;  "I  'm  only  tired,  and  we  must  go 
on."  For  a  little  distance,  while  the  excitement  lasted,  he  would 
press  forward  eagerly,  but  suddenly  his  strength  would  fail  and  he 
would  sit  down  by  the  wayside  exhausted  and  faint.  , 

Then  Lilybel  would  use  every  argument  to  encourage  him  to 
make  another  effort.  Sometimes  it  would  be  a  smoke,  or  the  distant 
sound  of  a  cow-bell,  or  the  rumbling  of  wheels,  and  when  these  signs 

196 


over; 
the  ni 
hadb 
the  n 
his  fa 
brigh 
his  lo 

seem 
shie 

cross 
walk 
an'  V 
dole 


■-;■  -J.j  r.;'i.i'Ji-7i*'j.^*i.i-'?-j''^ 


TOINETTE  S   PHILIP 


197 


vhen  the  little 
o  months  they 
heir  difficulties 
r  strength, 
on  the  delicate 
one  looking  at 
toward  the  last 
e  without  rest- 
never  hungry, 

0  gave  them  a 
ired  conductors 
from  one  place 
his  weary  little 
cure  grave.  In 
ge  never  failed; 

1  they  first  set 
irgy.  "  I  'm  not 
nd  we  must  go 
sted,  he  would 
mid  fail  and  he 

courage  him  to 
e,  or  the  distant 
rhen  these  signs 


failed  and  Philip  did  not  respond  to  Lilybel's  allurements,  the  sturdy 
little  negro,  whose  greatest  virtue  was  his  fidelity,  would  take  up 
his  frail  burden  and  trudge  on  until  he  reached  the  assistance  that 
he  had  predicted. 

In  this  wa>  they  progressed,  slowly  and  wearily,  until  at  last 
one  night  found  them  near  the  shore  of  the  lovely  lake  which 
stretched,  an  impassable  barrier,  between  them  and  their  promised 
land.  It  was  May ;  a  great  round  moon  as  bright  as  a  silver  shield 
shone  above  them.  They  were  in  a  forest  of  pines;  the  wind 
soughed  and  murmured  among  the  boughs ;  the  air  was  sweet  with 
the  resinous  odor  of  the  sap  that  flowed  from  the  wounded  trees ; 
the  earth  was  strewn  with  the  fragrant  needles  of  the  pine  until  it 
was  as  soft  and  soothing  as  the  most  luxurious  bed. 

When  Philip,  exhausted  from  his  day's  struggle,  stretched  his 
suffering  little  body  on  the  friendly  earth,  it  was  with  a  feeling  of 
thankfulness  that  he  had  made  his  last  march,  that  the  journey  was 
over ;  for  he  thought  the  soughing  of  the  wind  among  the  trees  was 
the  murmuring  of  the  lake,  that  they  were  on  its  very  shores,  and 
had  but  to  cross  its  sparkling  waters,  when  in  truth  it  lay  flashing  in 
the  moonbeams  miles  and  miles  away.  He  was  very  ill  that  night ; 
his  face  was  flushed  and  hot  with  fever,  and  his  eyes  were  large  and 
bright  when  he  raised  them  to  Lilybel,  who  sat  beside  him  crying  in 
his  low^,  whimpering  way. 

"  What  are  you  crying  for,  Lilybel  ?  "  asked  Philip,  dreamily.  He 
seemed  to  be  floating  up  and  up  among  the  trees  toward  the  silver 
shield  of  the  moon. 

"  I  's  er-cryin'  'ca'se  yer  sick,  Mars'  Philip,  an'  wes  can't  git  er- 
cross  der  lake.  Now  wes  yere  we  can't  git  ercross.  Wes  can't 
wa/k  ercross  dat  water,  and  New  'leens  is  jes*  on  de  oder  side, 
an'  wes  can't  git  ercross  'ca'se  wes  can't  walk,"  repeated  LilybeU 
dolefully. 

13* 


i^ 


198 


TOINETTE  S   PHILIP 


*'  No,"  said  Philip,  "we  can't  walk  any  more,  but  we  can  stay  herej 
and  rest.     We  can  stay  here  always." 

••  No,  we  can't  stay  here,  Mars'  Philip ;  wes  got  ter  git  ercross," 
returned  Lilybel,  decidedly. 

"  It 's  like  Mammy's  garden,"  murmured  Philip.     His  mind  wan- 
dered, as  he  drifted  off  into  a  feverish  sleep. 

••  But  hit  's  a  mighty  long  way  from  dar,  an'  wes  got  ter  git  er- 
cross," still  insisted  Lilybel. 

"The  sweet-olive  's  in  bloom;  I  smell  it,  and  the  jasmine,  too." 

"  No,  Mars'  Philip,  it  ain't  no  sweet-olive ;  dar  ain't  none  yere. 
It 's  jes  dem  piney-trees  what  yer  smells." 

"  Dea,  let 's  go  to  Rue  Royale  before  the  sweet-olive  withers." 

"What  yer  talkin'  erbout.  Mars'  Philip?  Yer  can't  go  ter  Rue 
Royale  till  yer  cross  der  lake,"  and  Lilybel  bent  over  the  sick  boy 
and  looked  into  his  face  with  eyes  full  of  alarm.  "  He  's  ersleep,  an' 
he 's  dreamin'  out  loud.  My,  my !  he  's  awful  sick ;  he  's  got  der 
fever.     An'  how  's  I  er-gwine  ter  git  him  ercross  der  lake  ? " 

Suddenly  Lilybel  ducked  his  head  and  listened.  Then  he  lay 
down  flat  and  put  his  ear  to  the  earth.  "  Dat  's  er  train,  shore,  and 
it  's  over  dar.  It  ain't  fur,  an'  it  's  er  train  what 's  gwine  ter  cross 
der  lake.  My,  my !  if  wes  war  on  dat  track  wes  'd  git  took  over, 
shore.  Dey  'd  take  on  a  boy  what 's  sick  an'  mos'  dade.  He  's  got 
der  fever  an'  he  's  er-dreamin'  out  loud.  Dey  'd  take  him  on,  an'  I 's 
got  ter  git  him  dar.  I  's  got  ter  wake  him.  Cum,  Mars'  Philip,  yer 's 
got  ter  git  on  my  back ;  I  's  got  ter  tote  yer." 

But  Lilybel  spoke  to  deaf  ears.  Philip  was  in  a  deep  stupor, 
unconscious  of  pain  or  weariness,  and  when  the  little  negro  lifted  the 
heavy  head  it  fell  back  inertly  on  its  pillow  of  pine-needles. 

"It  ain't  no  use — he  won't  wake;  I  's  got  ter  tote  him  like  er 
baby,  an'  dem  little  mices,  too.  I  's  got  ter  tote  dem  on  my  back, 
an'  Mars'  Philip  in  my  arms." 


can  stay  here 
r  git  ercross," 
[is  mind  wan- 
jot  ter  git  er- 

smine,  too." 
i't  none  yere. 

'e  withers." 
ii't  go  ter  Rue 

the  sick  boy 
i  's  ersleep,  an' 
he  's  got  der 
ake?" 

Then  he  lay 
lin,  shore,  and 
wine  ter  cross 
git  took  over, 
ie.  He  's  got 
him  on,  an'  I 's 
3'  Philip,  yer  's 

I  deep  stupor, 
egro  lifted  the 
idles. 

te  him  like  er 
on  my  back, 


* 


"TAKING    PHIUP    IN    HIS    ARMS,  HE    TRUDGED    OFF    TOWARD    A    LARGE    TREE." 


I 


TOINETTES   PHILIP 


20 1 


There  is  no  undergrowth  in  these  pine-forests ;  one  can  see  long 
distances  through  the  vista  of  trees,  and  Lilybel,  later  on,  caught 
the  faint  flash  of  a  light  and  heard  again  the  rumble  of  a  train. 
This  decided  him  in  what  direction  to  go;  so  he  arranged  his  bur- 
dens as  he  best  could,  and,  taking  Philip  in  his  arms  as  tenderly  as 
he  would  a  sleeping  infant,  he  trudged  off  toward  a  large  tree 
which  stood,  stripped  of  bark,  bare  and  white  in  the  moonlight 

The  little  negro,  burdened  as  he  was,  could  not  walk  far  without 
stopping  to  recover  his  breath ;  therefore,  when  he  came  to  a  favora- 
ble spot,  he  would  put  Philip  gently  down  and  sit  beside  him  until 
he  was  sufficiently  rested  to  be  able  to  lift  him  up  and  push  on  a  lit- 
tle farther,  with  careful  steps  and  eyes  fixed  on  his  landmark,  shining 
whiter  and  more  distinct  the  nearer  he  approached  it. 

This  difficult  and  tedious  performance  occupied  a  greater  part 
of  the  night,  and,  much  to  Lilybel's  joy,  when  the  morning  dawned 
he  found  himself  in  a  clearing,  and  only  a  few  paces  from  a  railroad. 
When  it  was  light  enough  for  him  to  see  a  little  distance  ahead,  he 
also  discovered  that  he  was  near  a  water-station. 

"  Now  wes  safe,"  he  said,  exultingly.  "  Dey  's  got  ter  stop  yere 
to  water  der  ingine,  an'  I  's  only  got  ter  git  Mars'  Philip  up  by  dat 
tank  an'  wait  till  der  train  cums  erlong." 

This  feat,  which  was  nothing  compared  to  what  he  had  accom- 
plished through  the  night,  was  easily  performed,  and  when  Philip 
awoke  at  last  from  his  long,  heavy  sleep,  he  found  himself  lying  on 
the  grass  in  the  shadow  of  the  water-tank,  and  Lilybel  sitting  beside 
him,  bathing  his  face  and  hands  with  cool,  sweet  water. 

"  I  done  tole  yer  wes  near  der  railroad,"  said  the  little  negro, 
delightedly,  when  Philip  sat  up  and  looked  around  him  with  sur- 
prise. 

"Where  are  we?  Have  we  crossed  the  lake?"  asked  Philip, 
still  confused  and  a  little  dizzy. 


i 


303 


TOINKTTES    PHILIP 


"  No,  wes  ain't  crossed  yit,  but  wcs  gwine  ter  on  der  fust  train 
what  cums  erlong." 

"  How  did  I  get  here,  Lilybel  ? "  questioned  Philip.    "  I  went  to 
sleep  under  a  pine-tree,  and  I  don't  remember  waking." 

"  No,  yer  did  n't  wake ;  I  done  toted  yer  while  yer  wuz  asleep, " 
replied  Lilybel,  proudly. 

"  And  the  '  children,'  too  ?  " 

•'  Yes,  der  mices,  too,"  returned  Lilybel,  with  satisfaction. 
Philip  smiled  and  laid  down  contentedly.     In  a  few  moments  he 
was  asleep  again,  while  Lilybel  sat  beside  him,  patiently  watching 
him.     At  last  he  awoke,  greatly  refreshed.     The  fever  was  gone  and 
his  head  was  clear,  but  he  was  very  weak. 

It  was  getting  on  toward  noon,  and  Lilybel  looked  and  listened 
for  the  train  which  he  was  sure  would  come. 

"  I  hears  it  now.  Mars'  Philip,"  or  "  I  sees  er  smoke,"  was  the 
constant  encouraging  remark  to  which  Philip  listened,  a  gentle  smile 
on  his  lips  and  his  eyes  full  of  expectation. 

But  a,t  last,  at  last,  they  heard  a  distant  rumble,  then  a  rushing 
and  a  snorting,  and  a  heavy  freight-train  hove  in  sight.  It  was  a 
moment  of  intense  anxiety  for  the  little  pilgrims.  Would  it  slow  up 
at  the  water-tank,  or  would  it  not?  Philip  forgot  his  weakness,  and 
tottered  to  his  feet.  Lilybel  stood  perilously  near  the  track,  and 
waved  his  tattered  cap.  The  great  thirsty  monster  came  swiftly  on, 
glaring  at  them  with  its  bright  eye,  snorting  and  puffing,  slower  and 
slower.  "  Yas,  yas,  it 's  er-gwine  ter  stop ! "  shouted  Lilybel.  "  Yas, 
it 's  done  stopped."  And,  sure  enough,  with  many  a  jolt  and  shiver,  the 
long  train  drew  up  before  the  water-tank,  and  the  men  jumped  out 
and  proceeded  to  quench  the  thirst  of  the  fiery  dragon. 

When  the  conductor  saw  the  little  tattered  figure  of  Lilybel 
standing  near  the  tank,  he  laughed  and  said:  "Hello,  scarecrow! 
where  did  you  come  from?     What  you  doin'  here ?  "     Then  noticing 


iDili 


TOINETTES    PHILIP 


203 


der  fust  train 

,    "I  went  to 

wuz  asleep," 


iction. 

AT  moments  he 
:ntly  watching 
was  gone  and 

d  and  listened 

loke,"  was  the 
a  gentle  smile 

then  a  rushing 
rht.  It  was  a 
auld  it  slow  up 
weakness,  and 
the  track,  and 
ime  swiftly  on, 
ing,  slower  and 
Jlybel.  "Yas, 
:  and  shiver,  the 
en  jumped  out 
ti. 

ure  of  Lilybel 

illo,  scarecrow! 

Then  noticing 


Philip,  who  was  leaning  feebly  against  the  side  of  the  tank,  he  said, 
not  unkindly .  "  Here  's  another,  a  white  one,  an*  sick,  too,  I  guess." 
Philip  lifted  his  eyes  and  smiled;  the  gentle,  friendly  smile 
w(  nt  straight  to  the  man's  heart.  "  Waiting  for  the  train,  eh  ?  Want 
to  board  it  to  cross  the  lake  ? " 

"If  you  please,  sir?"  replied  Philip,  eagerly.  "I  *m  sick;  I 
can't  walk  any  more." 

"I  guess  you  cjin't,"  returned  the  conductor,  lifting  the  boy 
gently;  "yer  about  used  up.     How  far  have  ye  footed  it?" 

"  From  Chattanooga,"  said  Philip,  evasively. 

"Ye  have,  have  ye?  Well,  no  wonder  yer  nothin'  but  skin  and 
bones.     Yes,  get  in  ;  I  '11  cross  yer." 

"  And  him,  too?"  indicating  Lilybel. 

"  The  little  scarecrow  ?  Oh,  he  can  get  in  ;  the  two  of  you  won't 
weigh  more  'n  a  cat.  Here,  Bill,"  he  called  to  the  brakeman,  "  can't 
yer  fix  up  something  for  this  young  one  ?  He  looks  as  if  he  'd  faint 
away.  Don't  b'Heve  he  's  had  anything  to  eat  for  a  week.  Frogged 
it  from  Chattanooga.     Just  think  of  that !  " 

"  Plenty  o'  pluck  fer  such  a  bundle  o'  bones.  Yes,  I  '11  git  him 
something,"  replied  the  brakeman,  looking  kindly  at  the  boy.  "  Most 
starved,  ain't  ye  ?  " 

"  No,  I  'm  not  hungry,  thank  you,"  returned  Philip,  still  smiling ; 
"  I'm  only  thirsty." 

"Thirsty  I  Well,  I  '11  make  ye  a  drink  in  two  winks,"  and  turn- 
ing to  a  shelf,  he  drained  some  black  coffee  from  a  can  into  a 
mug,  and  then  taking  a  small  flask  from  his  pocket,  he  poured  some- 
thing from  it  into  the  coffee,  and  putting  in  some  sugar,  he  stirred 

it  well. 

"  Here,  my  little  man,  drink  this,  an'  it  '11  set  you  up,"  he  said 

cheerily,  giving  the  mug  to  Philip.    "  It 's  greased  lightnin'.    It  '11 

cure  you  right  off.  You  '11  be  well  afore  ye  git  across." 


204 


TOINETTE  S   PHILIP 


::,iii 


If" 


Philip  drank  the  black  draught  greedily,  and  lay  down  content- 
edly on  the  hard  seat  of  the  caboose,  while  Lilybel  sat  beside  him 
and  munched  some  corn  bread  and  bacon  supplied  by  the  generous 
brakeman. 

While  the  train  rolled  on  toward  the  lake,  Philip  lay  looking 
through  the  open  door  of  the  caboose.  Suddenly  he  cried,  ••  Oh, 
there  's  latania  and  cypress !  I  see  the  moss  waving  in  the  wind. 
We  're  in  Louisiana,  are  n't  we  ? " 

"  Yes,  we  crossed  the  line  away  back  ;  we  're  near  the  lake,  and 
we  '11  be  in  New  Orleans  in  an  hour  or  so." 

At  the  sound  of  the  magic  words,  Philip  brightened  instantly. 
He  was  well  and  strong  now ;  he  sat  up  and  looked  eagerly  to  catch 
the  first  glimpse  of  the  lake ;  he  was  all  excitement,  all  energy.  "  So 
near,  so  ner  ,"  he  whispered  to  Lilybel.  "  Oh,  there 's  the  lake ;  how 
wide,  how  blue,  how  beautiful !  It  is  like  sailing  on  the  sea."  And 
while  he  chattered  and  laughed,  the  train  rolled  over  the  long  bridge 
across  the  shining,  placid  water  of  the  beautiful  lake. 


IjMI 

■•J 
1 


•.T?,-**^—?  '^H'-^ 


lay  down  content- 
bel  sat  beside  him 
d  by  the  generous 

Philip  lay  looking 
ly  he  cried,  ••  Oh, 
aving  in  the  wind. 

near  the  lake,  and 

Ightened  instantly. 
;d  eagerly  to  catch 
t,  all  energy.  "  So 
re 's  the  lake ;  how 
on  the  sea."  And 
rer  the  long  bridge 
ke. 


Chapter  XXXIII 


AFTER    MANY    DAYS 


WHEN  the  train  pulled  into  the  station,  Philip  could  hardly 
wait  for  it  to  stop,  so  eager  was  he  to  get  off.  "We 
will  go  to  Rue  Royale  and  find  Seline  first,"  he  said  joy- 
ously to  Lilybel,  who  suddenly  seemed  much  subdued,  and  not  so 
elated  as  one  should  be  over  the  termination  of  so  many  difficulties 
and  untoward  adventures. 

"  I  spects  my  ma  's  gwine  ter  beat  me  fur  runnin'  erway.  I  's  mos' 
feared  to  go  dar ;  I  guess  I  '11  go  on  der  levee  fust,  an'  wait  ter  see  ef 
she  's  er-gwine  ter  beat  me." 

"  Seline  won't  do  anything  of  the  kind, "returned  Philip,  confidently. 
"  Sho  '11  be  too  glad  to  see  you.  Come  on,  and  I  '11  see  that  she 
does  n't  scold  you." 

"  My  ma  she  t'inks  I 's  dade,"  said  Lilybel,  still  doubtful  of  his 
welcome ;  "  an'  I  s'pects  she  '11  be  mad  if  I  cums  ter  life." 

Philip  laughed  his  old  merry  laugh.  "  Oh  come  on,  and  don't  be 
afraid.  Seline  *s  so  good  she  won't  hurt  you."  With  hasty  thanks 
to  the  kind  trainmen,  he  almost  flew  out  of  the  station,  into  Ely- 
sian  Fields,  and  up  Rue  Royale,  scarcely  stopping  to  take  breath  as 
he  hurried  along.  He  was  no  longer  a  little  soiled,  dejected  pilgrim ; 
he  did  not  think  of  his  weakness,  his  ragged,  dusty  garments,  his 
tangled  hair  and  grimy  skin.  After  many  days  of  hope  deferred,  of 
pain,  weariness,  and  anxiety,  he  was  once  more  Toinette's  Philip, 
running  up  Rue  Royale  to  find  Seline. 


SOS 


206 


TOINETTES    PHILIP 


At  the  cathedral  close  he  stopped  a  moment  to  look  into  the  gar- 
den. How  lovely  it  was !  Yes,  there  was  the  sweet-olive  in  bloom, 
the  jasmine  dotted  with  white  stars,  the  borders  purple  with  violets. 
Pressing  his  thin  face  against  the  iron  railings,  he  breathed  in  the 
familiar  perfume  greedily.  "  Oh,  it 's  lovely  to  be  home,"  he  said, 
.beaming  with  smiles ;  *'  and  what  will  Seline  say  ?  Won't  she  be  sur- 
prised to  see  us  !  " 

So  confident  was  Philip  of  finding  Seline  in  her  old  place,  that 
the  possibility  of  her  not  being  there  had  never  occurred  to  him,  and 
even  when  he  reached  the  very  portico  of  the  old  bank  and  saw 
no  trace  of  her,  or  of  her  stand,  he  could  not  believe  his  eyes,  but 
stood  staring  in  blank  amazement  at  the  vacant  spot,  the  place 
where  she  always  sat  smiling  a  welcome  the  moment  he  came  within 
her  line  of  vision.  But  now  there  was  nothing  there,  absolutely 
nothing,  that  belonged  to  her.  The  stately  columns,  the  fine  por- 
tico, were  dwarfed  and  mean  without  Seline.  The  place  seemed 
wretchedly  dreary  and  empty,  and  the  cold  gray  stone  struck  a  chill 
to  his  heart. 

"Where  's  my  ma?"  gasped  Lilybel,  his  eyes  starting  out  with 
surprise.  "  She  's  done  gone;  she  rJn't  yere,"  and  he  gave  a  sigh, 
half  of  relief — the  chance  of  punishment  was  again  deferred. 

Philip  said  nothing ;  he  could  find  no  words  to  express  his  disap- 
pointment. Brushing  away  the  hot  tears,  he  entered  a  shop  near  the 
bank  and  made  inquiries  for  Seline.  In  the  old  days  every  one  in 
the  neighborhood  knew  Seline  ;  but  this  was  a  new  tenant ;  he  had 
been  there  only  a  year,  and  he  had  never  seen  a  stand  under  the 
portico  of  the  old  building  in  all  that  time.  Philip  went  out  discour- 
aged and  asked  the  same  anxious  questions  at  several  other  places. 
Oh,  yes,  the  old  colored  woman ;  she  had  n't  been  there  for  a  year 
or  more ;  they  could  n't  say  where  she  had  gone.  That  was  all  the 
information  he  could  get. 


TOINETTE  S   PHILIP 


207 


into  the  gar- 
ive  in  bloom, 
:  with  violets, 
iathed  in  the 
me,"  he  said, 
I't  she  be  sur- 

>ld  place,  that 
;d  to  him,  and 
»ank  and  saw 
his  eyes,  but 
»ot,  the  place 
le  came  within 
re,  absolutely 
the  fine  por- 
place  seemed 
;  struck  a  chill 

rting  out  with 
e  gave  a  sigh, 
deferred, 
►ress  his  disap- 
i  shop  near  the 
s  every  one  in 
tenant ;  he  had 
tand  under  the 
int  out  discour- 
al  other  places, 
here  for  a  year 
'hat  was  all  the 


"  I  s'pects  my  ma 's  dade,"  whimpered  Lilybel.  He  could  see  no 
other  possible  reason  for  her  abandoning  her  old  stand. 

"  Oh,  don't  say  that,"  cried  Philip,  sharply.  "  She  is  n't  dead ; 
she  's  only  gone  away,  and  we  must  find  her."  Then  pulling  him- 
self together,  he  tried  to  meet  this  unexpected  emergency  with 
courage. 

After  a  moment's  silence,  he  said,  quite  cheerfully,  to  Lilybel : 
"  You  go  to  Seline's  house  and  see  if  she  's  there,  and  if  she  is  n't 
there,  try  to  find  out  where  she  is,  and  I  '11  go  to  St.  Mary's  and 
ask  if  P^re  Josef  has  got  back.  I  '11  wait  there  for  you  on  the 
steps.     Hurry  as  fast  as  you  can,  and  bring  Seline  with  you." 

Lilybel  did  not  stand  upon  the  order  of  his  going,  but  scuttled 
off  as  fast  as  he  could  to  do  Philip's  bidding ;  besides,  he  too  was 
somewhat  anxious  to  know  what  had  become  of  his  ma. 

After  he  had  gone,  Philip  retraced  his  steps,  a  forlorn  little  fig- 
ure in  the  bright  spring  sunshine.  When  he  passed  the  cathedral 
on  his  way  to  St.  Mary's,  he  did  not  notice  the  flowers  nor  the  fra- 
grance of  the  garden ;  his  head  was  bent  dejectedly  and  his  step 
was  slow  and  feeble. 

At  the  entrance  of  '^  ;urch,  he  waitied  for  a  priest  who  was 
coming  out, —  a  gentle-k^  iiig  old  man.  Philip  stopped  him,  and, 
with  a  quaver  in  his  voice,  asked  if  P^re  Josef  had  returned. 

"  P^re  Josef!  Oh,  no ;  he  is  n't  back,  but  he 's  expected — he  's 
expected  any  day,"  and  with  a  glance  of  mild  curiosity  at  the  tat- 
tered boy  the  priest  passed  out. 

Philip's  face  was  radiant  in  a  moment.  "  Any  day,  any  day," 
he  repeated.  "  Well,  perhaps  he  '11  come  to-day.  I  '11  sit  on  the 
steps  and  wait  for  Lilybel,  and  it  may  be  that  he  '11  come  while  I  'm 
waiting." 

Pire  Josef  did  not  come,  but  after  a  while,  Lilybel  hove  in  sight, 
breathless  and  excited.    "  Her  ain't  dade,"  he  cried,  as  soon  as  he 


4 


V 


2o8 


TOINETTE'S   PHILIP 


:\. 


was  within  hearing  distance ;  "  but  her  ain't  dar  nudder.  A  colored 
lady  tele  me  her  's  done  move  erway  more  n  a  year,  an  she  don  t 
know  whar  her 's  gone ;  she  s'pects  her 's  gone  ter  der  country.  I  s  bin 
on  der  levee,  an'  one  of  dem  luggers  is  er-gwine  up  der  ruver  ter- 
niffht.  an'  1  's  er-gwine  ter  go  on  her  ter  find  my  ma  fer  yer.  Mars 
Philip,  an'  I  's  gwine  ter  bring  her  back.  Dat  lady  she  guv  me 
some  biscuit  and  fried  chicken,  an'  I 's  brought  it  to  you.  ca  se  I  11  git 
plenty  ter  eat  on  dat  lugger.     An'  Mars'  Ph.hp.  yer  jes   wait  yere 

till  I  come  back  with  my  ma."  ^    u,.-  u     -        i 

That  night,  when  the  old  sacristan  of  the  Archbishops  palace 

was  closing  the  gates  of  the  garden,  he  found  a  forlorn  little  figure 

curled  up  on  the  grass  in  a  corner,  sound  asleep,  with  one  arm 

clasped  tightly  around  a  small  bundle. 

'•Some  poor  little  wanderer."  thought  the  old  man.     "I  wont 

disturb  him;  he  can't  do  any  harm  here.    I '11  let  him  sleep.     And  so 

Philip  was  left  to  dream  away  the  night  in  the  Archbishops  garden. 

under  the  shadow  of  St.  Mary's  Church. 

As  soon  as  it  was  light,  he  was  awake;  and.  without  waiting  to 
say  ban  jour  to  the  old  sacristan,  he  sallied  forth  weak  in  body,  but 
strong  in  heart.  With  the  morning  had  come  the  determination  to 
find  Dea.  He  knew  she  lived  on  ViUerd  street,  but  he  had  never 
been  there,  and  was  not  certain  of  the  exact  locality  Still,  he 
thought  he  could  find  her  by  inquiring  from  door  ^  door 

On  his  way  to  Viller^  street  he  stopped  to  look  in  his  Mammy  s 
old  garden.  It  was  very  early,  and  there  was  no  one  near  to  witness 
his  surprise  when  he  saw  how  the  place  was  changed.  The  stucco  of 
the  wall  was  repaired  and  freshly  colored,  the  iron  scrollwork  of  the 
gate  was  as  bright  and  fresh  as  new  paint  could  make  it  Ihe 
vagrant  vines  no  longer  trailed  over  the  walls,  the  Pittosporum  trees 
were  carefully  trimmed,  and  the  walks  and  borders  newly  cleaned 
And  there,  in  front  of  Toinette's  little  cottage,  was  a  pretty,  graceful 


r 
S 


I 


TOINETTE'S   PHILIP 


209 


A  colored 
1'  she  don't 
try.    I 's  bin 

•  ruver  ter- 

•  yer,  Mars' 
>he  guv  me 
ca'se  I  '11  git 
5'  wait  yere 

hop's  palace 

little  figure 

Lth  one  arm 

I.  "I  won't 
ep."  And  so 
lop's  garden, 

ut  waiting  to 
;  in  body,  but 
;rmination  to 
le  had  never 
ty.  Still,  he 
door. 

his  Mammy's 
ear  to  witness 
The  stucco  of 
oUwork  of  the 
lake  it.  The 
osporum  trees 
lewly  cleaned, 
retty,  graceful 


house,  new  and  white,  with  slender  columns,  deep  galleries,  and  cool, 
shady  awnings.  Was  it  possible  that  this  was  the  old  neglected 
garden  ?  It  is  true  there  were  the  broken  white  pillars  with  their 
masses  of  verdure,  the  oaks  and  magnolias,  and  the  rose-garden  fresh 
and  blooming.  But  where 
was  his  Mammy  ?  Where 
were  the  Major  and  the 
Singer?  They  were  gone, 
and  strangers  were  there. 
It  was  no  longer  his  home. 
With  a  heartbreaking  sob 
he  turned  away,  and  has- 
tened down  Ursulines 
street  toward  Viller^. 

For    some    time   he 
wandered  up  and  down, 
meeting  with  no  success. 
He  could  not  find  any  one 
who  had  ever  heard  of  the 
artist  in  wax ;  but  at  last, 
when  he  was  almost  dis- 
couraged, he  stopped  at  a 
cottage  and  obtained  some 
information.    "Yes,  it  was 
in  the  very  next  house  that 
they  lived, — an  artist  and 
his  little   daughter;    but 
they  were  gone.  A  strange 

monsieur  came  and  took  them  away  a  long  time  ago. 
said  that  they  had  gone  to  France." 

This  was  the  most  unexpected  and  the  most  crushing  blow  of 


«HE    LEANED   AGAINST   THE    FENCE    OF    THE    DESERTED 
COTTAGE,  AND   CRIED    BITTERLY." 


And  it  was 


•*wm'«"» 


r 


2IO 


TOINETTES   PHILIP 


all.  He  had  never  thought  of  it ;  but  what  was  more  likely  than  that 
Dea's  rich  uncle  had  taken  them  away  with  him  ?  For  some  time  he 
leaned  against  the  fence  of  the  deserted  cottage,  and  cried  bitterly. 
He  was  getting  very  weak  and  hopeless  now.  Then  he  took  up  his 
little  bundles  and  went  away,  slowly  and  dejectedly,  back  to  St. 
Mary's  Church,  his  last  and  only  asylum. 

And  while  Philip  sat  waiting  on  the  steps  of  the  church,  tired 
and  ill  and  seemingly  deserted  by  all,  in  New  York  his  nearest  of 
kin,  almost  as  discouraged  and  hopeless  as  he,  were  using  every 
means  that  wealth  and  influence  could  command,  and  that  repentant, 
anxious  hearts  could  dictate,  to  discover  the  homeless,  suffering  boy. 


S" 


-:7:.' 


W»flW>l*»'i'*»Sfei«i''H* 


AibMMMiiMr  o^. 


ikely  than  that 
•  some  time  he 
cried  bitterly, 
he  took  up  his 
',  back  to  St. 

;  church,  tired 
his  nearest  of 
e  using  every 
:hat  repentant, 
suffering  boy. 


Chapter  XXXIV 


AT    THE     GATE 


SEVERAL  days  had  passed  since  his  arrival,  and  Philip  still  lin- 
gered around  St.  Mary's,  waiting  for  Pfere  Josef  and  Lilybel. 
'  He  had  seen  P^re  Martin  pass  in  and  out  several  times,  but 
he  had  not  made  himself  known,  because  he  remembered  that  Mr. 
Ainsworth  was  in  correspondence  with  the  piiest  of  St.  Mary's,  and 
that  through  him  they  might  learn  of  his  return  to  New  Orleans ;  and 
P^re  Josefs  friend  did  not  recognize  Toinette's  Philip  in  the  sickly, 
tattered  boy  who  lingered  so  persistently  around  the  steps  of  the 
church. 

After  a  day  or  two  the  old  sacristan  became  interested  in  the 
child,  and  offered  him  food,  and  even  a  pallet  to  sleep  on  in  one 
corner  of  his  little  room  in  the  lodge  at  the  gate  of  the  Archbishop's 
palace.  He  saw  that  the  boy  \/as  ill,  and  that  he  had  not  always  been 
the  neglected  little  vagrant  that  he  appeared  to  be ;  and  his  anxious, 
pathetic  inquiries  for  P^re  Josef,  who  was  one  of  the  sacristan's 
favorites,  added  to  the  pity  he  felt  for  the  boy. 

Every  night  as  Philip  entered  the  lodge  he  would  ask  the  same 
question  in  such  a  sad  and  patient  voice  that  the  old  man  almost 
wept 

"  Do  you  think  P^re  Josef  will  come  to-morrow,  Mr.  Sacristan  ?  " 

And  the  sacristan  would  answer,  as  cheerfully  as  he  could,  "  Out, 
mon  en/ant,  I  think  he  will  come  to-morrow." 

With  a  great  deal  of  mystery,  and  many  hints  as  to  the  neces- 
sity of  secrecy,  being  so  near  his  reverence  the  Archbishop,  Philip 


212 


TOINETTE'S   PHILIP 


had  uncovered  the  little  cage  and  showed  ?hre  Josefs  "children" 
to  the  sacristan,  and  he  had  almost  forgotten  his  troubles  and  disap- 
pointments to  laugh  with  the  old  man  over  their  droll  tricks. 

One  night  he  was  very  ill  again :  he  had  fever,  and  dreamed  out 
loud,  as  Lilybel  said.  All  night  he  talked  and  talked,  sitting  up  on 
his  pallet  with  wide,  bright  eyes  and  smiling  lips.  His  delirium  did 
not  take  the  form  of  stupor,  as  it  had  that  memorable  night  in  the 
pine-forest.  He  was  happy,  even  merry :  he  laughed  over  his  little 
tricks  with  the  poor  •'  doll " ;  he  called  the  sacristan  Mr.  Butler,  and 
chatted  with  him  as  he  had  with  Bassett  in  the  time  of  their  pleas- 
ant companionship ;  he  lived  over  the  brightest  days  of  his  life,— 
the  later  and  darker  period,  his  dreary  pilgrimage,  and  even  his 
recent  disappointment  seemed  all  forgotten. 

The  old  sacristan,  alarmed  at  his  high  fever,  his  restlessness  and 
delirium,  sat  by  his  little  pallet  all  night,  gave  him  copious  draughts 
of  ^resh  water,  and  tenderly  bathed  his  burning  hands  and  face. 
Toward  morning  the  fever  left  him,  and  he  sank  into  a  deep, 
refreshing  sleep.  When  he  awoke,  the  sacristan  and  the  priest  to 
whom  he  had  spoken  on  the  day  of  his  arrival  were  bending  over 
him.  They  were  talking  in  a  low  voice,  and  he  heard  them  repeat 
the  word  "  hospital "  several  times.  They  were  going  to  send  him 
to  the  hospital ;  he  was  very  ill ;  he  must  go  where  he  could  have 
proper  care. 

The  hospital !— to  Philip  that  meant  only  one  thing :  it  was  a 
place  where  people  were  sent  to  die ;  when  once  they  entered  there 
they  never  came  out — except  to  be  carried  to  their  last  resting-place. 
He  was  very  ill,  but  he  could  not  die  before  P^re  Josef  and  Lilybel 
came  back, — no ;  he  could  not  go  to  the  hospital.  He  said  nothing, 
but  lay  very  quiet  until  the  priest  and  the  sacristan  went  out.  As 
soon  as  they  disappeared  within  the  church,  he  got  up,  and,  taking 
his  little  bundle,  tottered  feebly  into  the  street.     • 


TOINETTE  S   PHILIP 


213 


jefs  "children" 
jbles  and  disap- 
1  tricks. 

,nd  dreamed  out 
:d,  sitting  up  on 
rlis  delirium  did 
ble  night  in  the 
;d  over  his  little 
Mr.  Butler,  and 
e  of  their  pleas- 
ys  of  his  life, — 
B,  and  even  his 

restlessness  and 
opious  draughts 
liands  and  face, 
ik  into  a  deep, 
nd  the  priest  to 
re  bending  over 
ard  them  repeat 
ing  to  send  him 
e  he  could  have 

thing :  it  was  a 
ley  entered  there 
1st  resting-place, 
fosef  and  Lilybel 
He  said  nothing, 
n  went  out.  As 
t  up,  and,  taking 


The  glare  of  the  sun  hurt  his  head ;  he  felt  faint  and  weak,  but 
he  hastened  on  down  Ursulines  street  out  of  sight  of  the  palace  and 
St.  Mary's  Church.  He  could  stay  there  no  longer ;  that  last  asylum 
was  closed  to  him.  If  he  went  back,  he  would  be  sent  to  the  hospi- 
tal, and  he  would  never  see  Fhre  Josef  and  Lilybel.  Lilybel  would 
be  sure  to  come  with  Seline ;  they  would  look  for  him  on  the  steps 
of  St.  Mary's,  and  he  would  not  be  there,  and  they  would  never  know 
where  to  find  him. 

This  last  calamity  was  almost  overwhelming;  but  he  must  not 
give  up,  he  must  keep  on  his  feet,  because  if  he  fell  in  the  street,  he 
would  be  picked  up  and  sent  to  the  hospital,  and  then  what  would 
become  of  the  "children"?  Some  one  might  steal  them,  or  they 
might  get  lost,  if  he  were  taken  away  from  them.  Then  he  thought 
of  St.  Roch's.  If  it  were  not  so  far!  If  he  could  only  get  there — 
there  on  his  Mammy's  grave,  surely  no  one  would  disturb  him! 
But  the  hospital !  —  the  hospital !  —  kept  ringing  in  his  ears.  He 
could  not,  he  must  not,  go  there. 

When  he  was  far  enough  from  St.  Mary's  to  feel  somewhat  safe, 
he  found  a  shady  doorway,  and  sat  down  to  rest  and  consider  what  he 
should  do ;  but  he  could  not  think,  his  head  whirled  strangely,  every- 
thing seemed  moving,  even  the  street  and  the  houses ;  then  he  felt 
sleepy,  and  was  about  to  close  his  eyes  when  a  rough  voice  smote 
his  ear: 

"Git  out  er  dat,  you 'young  one;  I  's  er-gwine  ter  clean  dese 
steps  an'  dis  yere  banquette."  And,  looking  up,  Philip  saw  a  stout 
negress,  with  a  pail  of  waten  and  a  broom,  waiting  to  begin  her 
work. 

Philip  staggered  to  his  feet  and  went  on  down  Ursulines  street 

blindly  and  dizzily,  like  one  in  a  dream.     It  seemed  to  him  that  he 

had  walked  miles  when,  without  knowing  how  he  had  come  there,  he 

suddenly  became  aware  that  he  was  again  before  the  Detrava  place. 

14* 


V 


Itl> 


314 


TOINETTES   PHILIP 


The  great  oaks  on  each  side  of  the  entrance  made  a  dense 
shade.     It  had  rained  during  the  night,  and  a  sweet,  moist  odor 
filled  the  air.      Again  Philip  lingered  and  looked  in  through  the 
iron  scrollwork.     He  was  so  weak  and  tired  that  he  could  not  stand. 
so  he  sat  down  before  the  gate,  and,  resting  against  the  stone  post, 
looked  up   into   the   great  waving  branches   above   him.      There 
were  birds  hopping  about  among  the  leaves;   yes,  there  were  a 
mocking-bird  and  a  cardinal,  and  innumerable  little  brown  birds. 
Suddenly  the  mocking-bird  broke  into  a  clear  liquid  stram,  and. 
spreading   its   wings,    soared   away    into   the   distant   sky.     Philip 
watched  it  dreamily.     Was  it  the  Singer?     He  was  not  sure,  but 
oh,  how  he  wished  he  could  follow  its  flight  into  that  infinite,  rest- 
ful blue!  ,.     „„  ,       . 

How  fresh  and  dewy  the  garden  looked !  What  enchanting 
fragrance,— what  soft  shadows  among  the  waving  vines!  It  was 
like  looking  into  Paradise.  If  they  would  only  open  the  gate  and 
allow  him  to  enter  and  lie  down  in  the  shade  under  his  favorite 
tree!  It  was  there  still;  he  could  see  it,  and  he  could  see  people 
moving  on  the  shady  galleries;  and  in  the  rose-garden  a  tall,  dark 
man  was  walking  back  and  forth.  In  his  hand  he  held  a  book,  but 
oftener  he  looked  up  at  the  sky,  as  if  his  treasures  were  there. 

While  Philip  strained  his  eyes  to  watch  the  man,  he  suddenly 
saw  appear  on  the  gallery  a  radiant  white  figure.  It  was  a  young 
girl  or  an  angel,  he  could  not  tell  which ;  then  a  stout  colored 
woman  came  in  sight  and  handed  the  radiant  creature  a  nosegay 
of  white  flowers  tied  with  trailing  white  ribbons,  and  a  small  white 
book,  which  the  young  girl  took  in  a  grave,  gentle  way ;  then  with 
graceful,  sedate  steps,  she  slowly  descended  to  the  garden,  followed 
by  the  woman  and  a  large,  serious-looking  old  dog. 

At  the  entrance  of  the  rose-garden  the  man  met  the  gracious 
young  creature,  and,  lifting  the  cloud  of  net  from  over  her  face. 


\ 


TOINETTE  S   PHILIP 


215 


nade  a  dense 
t,  moist  odor 
I  through  the 
uld  not  stand, 
he  stone  post, 

him.  There 
there  were  a 

brown  birds, 
d  strain,  and, 
:   sky.     Philip 

not  sure,  but 
t  infinite,  rest- 

lat  enchanting 
irines!     It  was 
1  the  gate  and 
er  his  favorite 
uld  see  people 
len  a  tall,  dark 
jld  a  book,  but 
ire  there, 
n,  he  suddenly 
t  was  a  young 
I  stout  colored 
ture  a  nosegay 
d  a  small  white 
iray;  then,  with 
garden,  followed 


he  stooped  and  kissed  her  gravely  and  tenderly.  Then  the  little 
procession  came  on  down  the  walk,  the  girl  stepping  daintily  in 
her  white  shoes,  while  she  held  her  cloud  of  lace  away  frorti  the 
intruding  roses  that  would  fain  caress  her.  She  was  surely  no 
mortal.  To  Philip,  in  his  bewildered  condition,  she  seemed  a  spirit, 
a  radiant  creature  from  another  world. 

The  slender  white-robed  figure,  with  its  misty  veil  and  crown 
of  white  flowers,  seemed  to  float  and  float  toward  him. 

Was  he  dreaming  ?  or  was  he  already  dead,  and  was  it  a  sweet 
vision  of  eternity?  It  was  surely  Dea's  face  under  the  veil;  it  was 
surely  Dea's  soft  grave  smile  that  he  saw,  her  low  gentle  voice 
that  he  heard.  And  the  woman  behind  her  was  Seline  —  yes,  Seline. 
And  the  dog?  Why,  the  dog  was  Homo!  And  they  were  at  the 
gate  — at  the  very  gate;  if  he  could  stretch  out  his  hand  he  could 
touch  them!  He  heard  the  key  rattle  in  the  lock,  the  old  gate 
creak  and  slowly  open,  and  in  a  voice  that  seemed  to  reach  to 
heaven  he  cried,  "  Dea !  Seline ! "  and  fell  feebly  forward  into  a  pair 
of  strong  arms  stretched  out  to  receive  him.  From  a  long  mur- 
muring distance  he  heard  a  soft  voice  say,  "It  is  Philip;  yes,  it  is 
Philip."  And  he  felt  himself  clasped  and  carried  away  — away, 
he  knew  not  whither,  for  he  drifted  into  blissful  rest,  while  faintly 
and  dimly  he  heard  the  rustling  of  leaves,  and  the  far-off  singing 
of  birds. 


let  the  gracious 
over  her  face. 


Chapter  XXXV 


A     BED     OF     KOSES 


WHEN  Dea,  white-robed  and  fair  as  an  angel,  stepping  dain- 
tily forth  to  her  first  communion,  saw  the  little  emaciated 
and  tattered  figuj-e  at  the  gate,  she  did  not  recognize 
in  it  her  former  merry  little  friend.  But  the  cry,  "Dea!  Seline!" 
was  enough.  In  an  instant  she  was  beside  him,  and  while  Seline 
received  the  fainting  boy  in  her  strong  arms,  it  was  Dea  who  took 
his  dusty,  tangled  head  to  her  heart,  in  spite  of  her  cloud  of  lace 
and  dainty  white  frock,  and  it  was  Dea's  tears  and  kisses  he  felt 
on  his  forehead  as  he  drifted  away  into  blissful  unconsciousness. 

This  meeting  was  not  the  meeting  that  Dea  had  looked  forward 
to.  For  months  and  months  she  had  been  expecting  Philip,  and 
she  always  thought  of  him  as  she  had  last  seen  him — happy, 
healthy,  and  full  of  the  excitement  of  his  expected  journey.  But 
he  was  none  the  less  w.elcome;  the  fact  that  he  was  ill  and  suf- 
fering, and  needed  her,  made  him  still  dearer. 

When  her  uncle,  after  vainly  trying  to  induce  his  brother  to 
return  with  him  to  France,  took  possession  of  the  Detrava  place 
and  built  the  pretty  house  they  now  occupied,  Dea  asked  that  the 
cottage  and  Philip's  room  might  remain  just  as  they  were,  so  that 
when  he  returned  he  would  find  everything  as  he  had  left  it ;  and 
when  Seline,  after  her  bereavement,—  for  she  believed  that  Lilybel, 
contrary  to  her  prediction,  had  been  "drownded  in  der  ruver,"— 
decided  to  give  up  her  stand  and  retire  to  private  life  as  Dea's 


hou 

beai 

the] 

his 

littl 

swe 

ing 

and 

smi! 

ilea 
sorr 
my 
dro 


mo 


916 


r 


TOINETTE  S   PHILIP 


817 


Stepping  dain- 

ttle  emaciated 

not  recognize 

Dea!  Seline!" 

d  while  Seline 

Dea  who  took 

cloud  of  lace 

kisses  he  felt 

consciousness. 

ooked  forward 

ig  Philip,  and 

him — happy, 

journey.     But 

IS  ill  and  suf- 

his  brother  to 
Detrava  place 
isked  that  the 
r  were,  so  that 
ad  left  it;  and 
d  that  Lilybel, 
der  ruver," — 
:  life  as  Dea's 


housekeeper,  she  and  her  adored  little  ma'mselle  took  pleasure  in 
beautifying  the  room  and  keeping  it  fresh  and  sweet  for  the  boy 
they  both  loved  so  dearly.  Therefore,  when  Philip  recovered  from 
his  swoon  and  opened  his  eyes,  he  found  himself  lying  on  his  own 
little  white  bed,  which  seemed  to  him  a  bed  of  roses,  so  soft  and 
sweet  was  it ;  and  Seline,  her  dusky  face  wet  with  tears,  was  bend- 
ing over  him  tenderly,  while  Dea,  still  in  her  white  frock,  rubbed 
and  stroked  his  thin  brown  hands. 

For  some  moments  Philip  said  nothing,  but  lay  contentedly 
smiling  up  in  their  faces.     Then  he  asked  if  Lilybel  had  come. 

At  the  mention  of  that  name,  Seline,  with  a  sob,  turned  her 
head  away ;  she  felt  all  a  mother's  sorrow  at  the  loss  of  her  trouble- 
some black  lamb.  "  Oh,  Mars'  Philip,  yer  don't  know,  does  yer,  dat 
my  poor  Lilybel  's  'ceased  more  'n  a  year  ago  ?  —  dat  he  was  done 
drownded  in  der  ruver?" 

"  No,  he  was  n't,  Seline,"  cried  Philip,  struggling  to  sit  up  and 
shake  off  his  weakness :  he  had  so  much  to  tell,  so  much  to  hear,  that 
he  could  not  lie  there  dull  and  silent.  Then  he  told  Seline,  briefly, 
and  in  a  weak  but  happy  voice,  of  the  prgdigal's  return,  not  from  a 
watery  grave,  but  from  New  York,  to  which  Dea  and  the  old  woman 
listened  with  many  exclamations  of  surprise  and  joy. 

An'  jes'  ter  t'ink,"  said  Seline,  laughing  and  crying  together, 
"  I  's  be'n  in  deep  mournin'  fer  dat  boy  fer  more  'n  a  year,  an'  now 
I  's  got  ter  take  it  off —  an'  my  bes'  dress  ain't  near  wore  out ! " 

While  Philip  was  feebly  recounting  some  of  their  adventures, 
there  was  a  rustling  and  rattling  at  the  door,  and  Lilybel  himself 
entered,  escorted  by  Homo,  who  had  recognized  his  old  companion, 
and  had  received  him  with  the  dignity  becoming  a  dog  whose 
condition  had  greatly  improved. 

There  was  a  very  affecting  meeting  between  Lilybel  and  his 
mother,  at  which  Dea  and  Philip  smiled  through  their  tears. 


/~ 


2l8 


TOINETTE  S   PHILIP 


I 


"  An'  how  did  yer  fine  out  whar  I  war  ?  "  asked  Seline,  when  she 
had  recovered  herself  a  little. 

"  Dat  cousin  in  der  country  done  tole  me ;  an'  when  I  could  n't 
fine  Mars'  Philip  on  dem  church  steps  dis  mawnin',  I  jes*  come  erlong 
down  yere.  An'  Ma,  now  I  ain't  dade,  I  's  gwine  ter  be  a  good  boy 
an'  wuk  right  smart.  I  's  gwine  ter  help  yer  nuss  Mars'  Philip  an' 
git  him  well,  'c'ase  he  's  mighty  sick ;  an' —  an'  I  ain't  nuver  gwine 
ter  run  erway  no  more,  'c'ase  I  don't  like  dem  steamboats,  an'  I  don't 
like  ter  walk  nudder." 

On  the  strength  of  Lilybel's  good  resolutions,  he  was  established 
in  the  Detrava  household,  where  in  time  he  became  a  useful  and  ac- 
complished servant;  and  to  Dea  he  was  even  something  of  a  hero 
when  she  learned  of  his  fidelity  to  Philip  through  that  long  and 
weary  pilgrimage. 

After  Philip  was  bathed  and  clothed  in  clean  white  garments, — 
some  of  the  very  garments  that  he  had  given  to  Lilybel  in  the  days 
of  his  prosperity,  and  which  Seline  had  cherished  as  something 
precious, —  he  was  laid  back  in  his  bed,  and  Mr.  Detrava  brought  a 
doctor — the  very  doctor  who  had  told  Philip  that  Toinette  would 
never  awake. 

"  He  is  very  ill  —  very  weak,  but  if  we  can  break  the  fever,  with 
good  nursing  and  proper  nourishment  we  may  bring  him  around," 
said  the  doctor  as  he  went  away  with  Mr.  Detrava,  talking  in  a  low, 
grave  voice,  while  Philip  lay  smiling  contentedly.  He  had  reached 
his  journey's  end,  he  had  found  Dea  and  Seline,  and  it  was  so  sweet 
to  rest  on  his  bed  of  roses  in  security  and  peace.  After  a  while  he 
fell  asleep,  and  when  he  awoke  he  still  smiled  to  see  Dea  and  Seline 
sitting  beside  him,  and  the  "children,"  on  a  little  table  near  the 
window,  scampering  and  playing  merrily. 

How  quiet  and  pretty  his  old  room  was !  how  soft  and  soothing 
the  sounds  that  came  in  through  his  open  window:   the  singing  of 


f 


T 


d  Seline,  when  she 

»'  when  I  could  n't 
,  I  jes'  come  erlong 

ter  be  a  good  boy 
ss  Mars'  Philip  an' 

ain't  nuver  gwine 
imboats,  an'  I  don't 

he  was  established 
ne  a  useful  and  ac- 
)mething  of  a  hero 
igh  that  long  and 

white  garments, — 
Lilybel  in  the  days 
shed  as  something 

Detrava  brought  a 
hat  Toinette  would 

reak  the  fever,  with 
bring  him  around," 
ra,  talking  in  a  low, 
'.  He  had  reached 
and  it  was  so  sweet 
After  a  while  he 
see  Dea  and  Seline 
ttle  table  near  the 

w  soft  and  soothing 
Dw:   the  singing  of 


TOINETTE  S   PHILIP 


219 


birds,  the  rustling  of  leaves  1  Never  had  a  little  pilgrim  found  such 
a  flower-strewn  path  at  his  journey's  end.  Seline  tended  him  as  if 
he  were  an  ailing  infant,  and  Dea  tempted  his  failing  appetite  with 
fresh  fruits  and  delicious  cooling  drinks,  and  even  the  artist  left  the 
seclusion  of  his  room  to  visit  the  sick  boy. 

Dea's  father  was  no  more  companionable,  none  the  less  a  dreamer 
than  formerly ;  but  he  remembered  Philip's  kindness  to  his  child  in 
those  old  days  of  sorrow  and  poverty,  and  now  he  wished  to  show 
his  gratitude  in  every  possible  way:  he  brought  his  lovely  little 
figures  to  show  the  boy,  for  he  still  modeled  industriously,  although 
now  he  never  sold  his  work,  and  his  beautiful  room  was  full  of  his 
exquisite  productions.  And  Philip  was  interested  and  pleased  with 
everything  in  a  languid,  mild  way ;  he  rarely  showed  any  enthusiasm, 
any  of  his  old  fervor  and  excitement,  over  the  things  he  liked.  He 
slept  a  great  deal,  and  complained  only  of  being  tired ;  sometimes  he 
laughed  softly,  but  the  old  merry  ring  had  gone  out  of  it.  At  times 
he  spoke  of  the  future,  whc  n  he  should  be  well,  what  he  should  do, 
and  where  he  should  go,  but  with  little  real  interest.  Often  he  had 
fever  and  talked  incessantly  of  his  wanderings  and  troubles,  while 
Dea  and  Seline  would  listen  with  wet  eyes  and  aching  hearts.  Had 
he  not  gone  with  those  rich  people  to  the  cold  North,  he  would  have 
been  well  and  happy  —  Toinette's  merry  Philip,  instead  of  the  feeble, 
wasted  shadow  befbre  them. 

One  day,  while  he  was  sleeping  lightly,  he  was  awakened  by  a 
hot  tear  falling  on  his  face,  and,  looking  up,  he  saw  P^re  Josef  lean- 
ing over  him.  In  a  moment  Philip's  weak  arms  were  around  the 
priest's  neck,  and  he  was  sobbing  on  his  breast. 

"  Mon  enfant!  mon  enfant!''  was  all  P^re  Josef  could  say,  as  he 
stroked  the  wan  cheek  and  soft  hair. 

As  soon  as  Philip  recovered  his  composure,  he  said  regretfully, 
"  I  'm  so  sorry,  P^re  Josef,  but  I  could  n't  help  it  —  poor  little  Boule- 


220 


TOINETTES   PHILIP 


!t.:' 


de-Neige  died  of  cold  on  the  mountains.  I  carried  her  all  day  inside 
my  jacket,  but  she  never  came  to  life,  and  I  buried  her  under  a  tree, 
and  put  a  little  stone  over  her  grave." 

P^re  Josef  smiled  and  brushed  away  a  tear.     "  I  never  thought 
my  'children'  would  travel  so  far." 


''..  ..  ,' 


"LOOKING    UP,   HE    SAW    VtKB,    JOSEF    LEANING    OVER    HIM." 

"  But  I  brought  the  others  back  safely.  I  said  I  would  take  care 
of  them,  and  I  did  as  well  as  I  could.  I  brought  them  back  to  you ; 
there  they  are  near  the  window." 


ir- 


TOINETTE'S   PHILIP 


221 


all  day  inside 
under  a  tree, 

lever  thought 


r 


)uld  take  care 
back  to  you ; 


"  Yes,  mon  enfant,  I  have  seen  them.  They  are  as  gay  and  as 
charming  as  ever.  You  took  very  good  care  of  them,"  returned 
Pere  Josef,  stroking  the  little  hot  hand  tenderly.  "But  we  won't 
talk  about  the  '  children '  now ;  you  are  too  ill,  and  there  ai «  many 
other  things  I  must  say  to  you  — " 

"  I  wanted  to  ask  you  a  question  before  you  went  away,"  in- 
terrupted Philip,  feebly ;  "  but  now  it  does  not  matter  to  know.  I  'm 
just  Toinette's  Philip,  and  it  does  n't  matter  to  know." 

"  But,  my  dear  child,  you  must  know ;  it  is  my  duty  to  tell  you. 
Will  you  lie  there  quietly  and  listen  calmly  while  I  tell  you  about 
your  parents  ? " 

"  Yes,  P^re  Josef,  I  will  lie  still  and  listen ;  but  I  'm  Toinette's 
Philip  all  the  same,  and  I  always  shall  be." 

Then  P^re  Josef  told  him,  as  simply  and  briefly  as  he  could, 
who  his  father  and  mother  were,  and  of  his  future  inheritance  and 
expectations,  to  which  Philip  listened  with  languid  indifference  until 
the  priest  mentioned  the  name  of  Ainsworth ;  then  he  started  up, 
flushed  and  excited.  "  No,  no ! "  he  cried ;  "  I  'm  not  Philip  Ains- 
worth. I  don't  want  the  name;  I  don't  want  the  money.  Let 
Lucille  and  the  baby  have  the  money.  I  tried  to  be  Philip  Ains- 
worth ;  I  tried  to  love  them,  and  tried  to  make  them  love  me,  but 
they  would  n't.  I  heard  Madam  Ainsworth  say  that  they  did  n't 
love  me,  and  that  they  were  tired  of  me;  and  that  's  why  I  ran 
away.  I  'm  glad  my  real  mama  was  a  Detrava,  and  that  Dea  is 
some  relation  to  me.  I  love  Dea  and  Mr.  Detrava,  but  I  don't  — 
I  can't  —  love  Madam  Ainsworth  after  what  she  said." 

''Mon  enfant,  she  did  not  know  that  you  were  her  grandson." 

"  But  she  might  have  loved  me  all  the  same.     Mr.  Butler  Basset 

loved  me,  and  he  said  I  was  n't  a  bad  boy ;  but  they  did  n't,  and 

they  never  will.     I  've  come  back  to  be  Toinette's  Philip— just 

Toinette's  Philip,"  he  reiterated  passionately. 


r 


m 


222 


TOINETTE  S    PHILIP 


P^re  Josef  saw  that  in  the  boy's  present  condition  it  was  use- 
less to  attempt  to  reason  with  him,  so  he  only  said  soothingly, 
"You  shall,  you  shall,  mon  enfant;  calm  yourself,  and  you  shall 
be  whatever  you  wish.  It  was  my  duty  to  tell  you.  Now  it  is  over, 
and  we  won't  talk  of  it  any  more." 

"  No,  we  won't  talk  of  it  or  think  of  it,"  returned  Philip,  decidedly. 
"  I  am  so  happy,  so  contented,  now,  that  the  thought  of  going  away 
where  no  one  loves  me  gives  me  a  pain  here."  And  he  laid  his 
thin  hand  on  his  fluttering  heart,  and  raised  his  eyes  with  such  a 
pathetically  appealing  look  in  them  that  P^re  Josef  almost  regretted 
having  performed  his  duty. 


1^ 


"1! 


n  It  was  use- 
1  soothingly, 
nd  you  shall 
ow  it  is  over, 

lip,  decidedly, 
f  going  away 
:l  he  laid  his 
i  with  such  a 
lost  regretted 


Zt 


Chapter  XXXVI 


A    RECONCILIATION 


MR.  AiNSWORTH  returned  from  the  West  as  soon  as  possible 
after  receiving  his  mother's  urgent  letter,  and  instituted 
without  delay  a  systematic  and  thorough  search  for  the 
missing  boy.  But  their  united  and  persistent  efforts  were  as  useless 
as  the  first  attempt  had  been.  Week  after  week  passed  in  following 
up  some  clue  which  proved  to  be  false,  or  waiting  in  anxious  ex- 
pectation for  news  from  the  different  detectives  they  had  employed 
throughout  the  country. 

During  those  wearisome  days  of  suspense,  Madam  AInsworth 
aged  visibly.  She  was  less  haughty  and  less  severe,  and  she  did  not 
hesitate  to  confe-^s  to  her  friend  that  she  could  not  sleep  at  night  for 
thinking  that  the  child  might  be  wandering  somewhere,  tired  and  ill, 
and  exposed  to  cold  and  hunger.  At  times  she  avoided  the  drawing- 
room,  where  Captain  Ainsworth's  portrait  seemed  to  look  at  her 
reproachfully,  his  sad,  persistent  gaze  following  her  everywhere. 
Then  she  would  go  into  the  boy's  deserted  room, —  the  room  she  had 
given  him  so  grudgingly, —  and  opening  his  wardrobe  she  would  look 
at  its  contents  with  an  aching  heart.  The  empty  little  garments  had 
a  pathos  of  their  own.  The  warm  fur  coat  that  the  boy  had  been 
so  proud  of,  and  liked  so  much  to  wear,  was  a  keen  rebuke  to  her 
when  she  thought  that  perhaps  he  was  suffering  with  cold;  and  the 
pride  which  had  prevented  his  taking  their  gifts  told  her  too  plainly 
that  he  had  understood  and  resented  their  unkindness.  Had  she 
known  that  he  was  Philip's  son,  she  would  have  made  an  idol  of  him : 


333 


■If*" 


i/~ 


224 


TOINETTE  S   PHILIP 


she  would  have  been  so  proud  of  his  beauty,  of  his  fine  manly  bear- 
ing, of  his  frank,  truthful  nature,  which  she  had  discovered  only 
when  it  was  too  late  to  show  her  appreciation  of  them. 

It  was  a  dreary  time  for  her ;  even  her  new  grandson  failed  to 
interest  her,  and  the  brilliant  and  mature  expressions  in  Lucille's 
Paris  letters  were  honored  with  only  one  hasty  reading. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ainsworth  suffered  too,  but  not  so  deeply  as  the 
old  lady,  because  they  were  less  guilty.  In  spite  of  their  thought- 
less neglect  of  Philip  after  the  birth  of  their  boy,  they  still  loved  their 
adopted  son,  and  felt  a  real  interest  in  him ;  and  now  that  he  was  gone 
they  missed  him  greatly,  and  were  sadly  anxious  concerning  him. 

It  had  become  a  habit  of  the  whole  family,  Bassett  included, 
to  expect  with  every  sound  of  the  door-bell,  and  every  messenger, 
some  news  of  the  lost  boy ;  and  one  day  it  came  in  a  brief  tele- 
gram, dated  at  New  Orleans,  and  signed  by  P^re  Josef: 

Philip  is  with  his  relatives,  the  Detravas,  on  Ursulines  street.      He  is  very  ill. 

Madam  Ainsworth  handed  it  to  her  son,  her  face  pallid  and 
sunken.  "  My  punishment  has  just  begun,"  she  said  brokenly,  as 
she  left  the  room.  That  night  she  and  her  son  were  on  their  way 
to  New  Orleans. 

For  several  days  after  his  conversation  with  Pfere  Josef,  Philip 
appeared  to  be  better  and  brighter,  and  each  day  Seline  lifted  him 
from  his  bed  and  laid  him  in  a  large  easy-chair  near  the  window. 
From  this  comfortable  position  he  could  look  into  the  garden  and 
watch  the  gardener  at  work  among  the  flowers. 

He  knew  every  tree  and  shrub,  and  the  riotous  vines  running 
everywhere  were  a  wonder  to  him.  "  Mammy  planted  that,"-  he 
would  say.  "  When  I  went  away  it  w  as  n't  up  to  my  knee ;  now 
it  's  nearly  as  high  as  the  house.     It  seems  to  be  running  up  to 


\r- 


TOINETTE  S   PHILIP 


225 


2  manly  bear- 
icovered  only 

dson  failed  to 
s  in  Lucille's 
ing. 

deeply  as  the 
heir  thought- 
till  loved  their 
it  he  was  gone 
;rning  him. 
sett  included, 
ry  messenger, 
1  a  brief  tele- 
sef: 

He  is  very  ill. 

.ce  pallid  and 
brokenly,  as 
on  their  way 

e  Josef,  Philip 
ine  lifted  him 
r  the  window. 
le  garden  and 

vines  running 
ited  that,"  he 
ly  knee ;  now 
unning  up  to 


the  sky.  I  think  it  loves  the  stars  and  is  trying  co  reach  them. 
And  there  's  the  very  magnolia-fuscata  we  set  out  one  day  —  the 
day  P^re  Josef  went  away.  It  was  a  little  thing  then ;  now  it  s- 
nearly  a  tree.  And  that  's  the  bed  of  lilies  we  planted  the  day 
Dea  sold  Quasimodo.  And  those  violets  in  that  border  are  the 
last  dear  Mammy  put  out;  I  helped  her,  and  the  Major  and  the 
Singer  were  around  me  all  the  time;  and  how  the  Singer  trilltd 
that  day !  I  never  heard  him  trill  so  before ;  perhaps  he  knew  it 
was  the  last  time  Mammy  would  hear  him.  I  wish  the  Singer  would 
come  back,  but  I  think  he  and  the  Major  are  gone.  They  missed 
me,  and  they  went  away;  perhaps  they  have  gone  to  search  for 
me,  and  when  they  can't  find  me  they  will  come  back." 

Dea  watched  him  constantly,  with  wistful,  anxious  eyes, 
hope  and  fear  alternating.  "  He  's  better  to-day,"  she  would  say 
confidently  to  Seline ;  but  the  old  woman  would  only  shake  her  head 
sorrowfully,  and  go  away  to  wipe  her  eyes  sfecretly. 

One  morning  he  was  especially  bright  —  almost  merry;  he 
played  with  the  "  children,"  caressed  and  stroked  Homo,  who  lin- 
gered around  him  affectionately,  and  chatted  with  Lilybel  over 
the  remarkable  adventures  of  their  pilgrimage. 

About  noon  P^re  Josef  entered.  His  pale,  thin  face  was  sad 
and  anxious,  and  his  voice  was  full  of  uncertainty  and  trouble,  as  he 
talked  in  a  low  tone  apart  to  Dea.  "  Yes,  yes,  my  child,  we  must  tell 
him.    It  is  our  duty  to  prepare  him.    They  will  be  here  in  a  few  days." 

Philip  caught  the  words,  "They  will  be  here,"  and  instantly  his 
eyes  were  full  of  anxiety.  "Who  — who  will  be  here?"  he  cried, 
starting  up  excitedly. 

"Mon  enfant,  calm  yourself,  calm  yourself,"  said  P^re  Josef, 
laying  his  hand  caressingly  on  Philip's  head.  "There  's  no  cause 
for  anxiety  or  inquietude.  Your  grandmother  and  uncle  will  be  here 
very  soon." 


»5 


.m. 


\r- 


226 


TOINETTE  S   PHILIP 


III 


"  Very  soon,"  echoed  Philip,  despairingly.  *'  They  are  coming  to 
take  me  away " ;  and  throwing  himself  on  his  pillow  he  burst  into 
tears.  "They  are  coming  for  me;  they  are  coming  to  take  me 
back." 

**  They  are  coming  because  they  love  you,  and  because  you  be- 
long to  them,"  said  Pere  Josef,  gently. 

"  They  want  to  see  you  because  you  are  ill.  Don't  excite  your- 
self; try  to  be  calm,"  urged  Dea,  sweetly.  "  No  one  shall  take  you 
away.     Papa  and  I  will  keep  you  always." 

"  They  will  take  me  away.  I  belong  to  them.  P^re  Josef  says  I 
belong  to  them.     Oh,  Dea,  I  can't  go  with  them." 

"  My  child,  my  dear  boy,  they  do  not  intend  to  take  you  away," 
said  Fhre  Josef,  greatly  distressed  at  the  boy's  terror. 

•*  Don't  fret,  Philip  dear,  don't  worry ;  no  one  shall  take  you  from 
us,"  and  Dea  put  her  arm  around  him  protectingly. 

That  night  Philip  was  restless  and  excited.  The  doctor  looked 
>grave  when  he  came,  and  said  decidedly  that  the  child  must  sleep. 
"  The  disease  has  reached  a  point  where  perfect  rest  and  sleep  are 
absolutely  necessary.  Give  him  his  composing  draught,  and  get 
him  to  sleep  as  soon  as  possible." 

Dea  and  Seline  tried  by  every  means  to  soothe  and  quiet  him  — 
his  eyes  were  wide  and  bright,  and  the  hot  flush  was  again  burning 
in  his  cheek.  Near  midnight  he  begged  to  be  allowed  to  lie  in  his 
chair  by  the  open  window,  where  he  watched  and  listened  as  though 
he  were  expecting  some  one.  It  was  a  languorous,  sultry  night,  and 
the  wide-open  windows  admitted  scarcely  a  breath  of  air.  At  times 
Philip  sighed  and  moved  restlessly.  Seline  fanned  him  gently,  and 
Dea  tried  to  soothe  him  to  sleep ;  but  no,  the  wide-open  bright  eyes 
continued  to  look  out  into  the  shadows  of  the  garden,  or  up  to  the 
deep  blue  of  the  sky  sown  with  myriads  of  stars.  Suddenly  there 
was  a  faint  rosy  light  over  everything,  the  white  flowers  came  out  of 


ir- 


TOINETTE  S    PHILIP 


227 


are  coming  to 
he  burst  into 
f  to  take  me 

:ause  you  be- 

t  excite  your- 
thall  take  you 

e  Josef  says  I 

lC  you  away," 

take  you  from 

doctor  looked 

id  must  sleep. 

and  sleep  are 

ught,  and  get 

d  quiet  him  — 
again  burning 
d  to  lie  in  his 
ned  as  though 
Itry  night,  and 
air.  At  times 
im  gently,  and 
en  bright  eyes 
I,  or  up  to  the 
luddenly  there 
rs  came  out  of 


the  shadows,  and  the  tall  clusters  of  Easter  lilies  were  faintly  pink. 
The  leaves  shivered  and  shook  down  crystal  drops,  the  birds 
twittered  and  called  to  one  another  across  the  dewy  garden,  the  east 
was  aglow  with  rose  and  pale  epal. 

"It  's  daylight,"  said  Philip,  softly;  "I  have  n't  slept  all  night. 
Soon  the  sun  will  rise  behind  the  Pittosporum,  just  as  it  did  when 
iVIammy  used  to  wake  me  to  go  to  P^re  Josef." 

"  Hush,  Philip,  hush ;  try  to  sleep,"  murmured  Dea,  soothingly. 
There  was  silence  for  a  moment ;  then  Philip  suddenly  started 
up,  his  eyes  wider  and  brighter,  and  a  smile  of  delight  on  his  parted 
lips.     "Dea,  do  you  hear  it?" 

"What,  Philip?  What  do  you  hear?"  questioned  Dea,  in  an 
awed  voice. 

"The  Singer — he  has  come — I  hear  him !  He  is  there,  away  up 
there,  trilling,  trilling,"  and  he  lifted  one  weak  hand  and  pointed 
toward  the  stars  growing  pale  in  the  rosy  light  of  dawn. 

Dea  and  Seline  listened  attentively,  and  presently  they  heard 
a  distant  liquid  note  circling  nearer  and  nearer — the  joyous  morn- 
ing song  of  a  happy  bird. 

Philip,  leaning  forward,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  tiny  dark 
object  which  came  swiftly  toward  the  window,  uttered  a  feeble  but 
sweet  note  which  the  bird  evidently  recognized,  for  it  suddenly 
darted  down  to  the  rose-bush  near  the  window,  and  there  it  lighted, 
swinging  on  a  slender  branch  while  it  poured  forth  its  clear,  exul- 
tant song. 

"It  is  the  Singer,  Dea,"  cried  Philip,  joyfully;  "he  has  come 
back.     Now  I  shall  get  well  and  be  Toinette's  Philip  again." 

Just  then  a  ray  of  sunlight  darted  across  the  lilies,  and  Dea 
remembered  that  it  was  Easter  morning.  Philip  leaned  back  on 
his  pillow,  smiling  contentedly;  soon  the  heavy  lids  drooped  over 
his  eyes  and  he  was  sleeping  peacefully,  while  the  bird  sang  on 


!/-• 


228 


TOINETTES    PHILIP 


and  on,  joyously,  exultantly ;  and  Dea,  as  she  listened,  seemed  to 
hear  in  its  clear  notes,  "  Glory  to  God,  peace  on  earth,  and  good 
will  toward  men." 

A  few  days  after,  when  Madam  Ainsworth  and  her  son  arrived, 
they  found  Philip  much  better,  and  quite  prepared  to  see  them.  He 
was  waiting,  calm  and  smiling,  sitting  by  his  favorite  window,  his 
weak  hand  clasping  Dea's  as  if  he  could  borrow  courage  and 
strength  from  his  faithful  little  friend.  There  was  no  one  else 
present,  and  Dea  never  forgot  that  touching  scene,  when  Madam 
Ainsworth,  her  face  gentle  with  love  and  penitence,  took  her  son's 
child  to  her  heart  with  such  affection  and  thankfulness  that  all 
Philip's  fears  and  misgivings  vanished  instantly.  With  an  impulse 
which  perhaps  he  could  not  understand,  he  clasped  her  neck  and 
whispered,  "  Grandmama,  I  love  you,  and  I  will  never  make  you 
unhappy  again." 

These  few  words  were  all  that  were  necessary  to  melt  the 
hardest  heart,  and  from  that  moment  there  was  the  most  perfect 
understanding  between  them.  The  only  other  words  that  Dea  could 
recall  afterward  were  these,  which  were  a  great  comfort  to  her. 
Philip  had  said,  very  gently  and  sweetly : 

"  P^re  Josef  says  you  will  not  take  me  away  now."  And  Madam 
Ainsworth  had  replied,  "My  darling,  you  shall  stay  here  as  long 
as  you  wish,  and  always  if  you  prefer.  From  this  moment  I  shall 
live  to  make  you  happy." 

A  few  evenings  after  the  arrival  of  the  Ainsworths,  P^re  Josef 
dropped  in  on  a  happy  family  group.  Philip  was  lying  in  hi§  chair 
under  his  favorite  tree.  His  grandmama  sat  beside  him,  fanning 
him  gently.  Dea,  on  a  low  chair,  was  reading  aloud,  with  Homo 
stretched  at  her  feet.  Mr.  Ainsworth  and  Mr.  Detrava  were  pacing 
back  and  forth  in  the  rose-garden,  talking  earnestly  —  doubtless  of 
art,  for  they  were  congenial  spirits.     The  "children's"  cage  hung 


)  ■■ 


I,  seemed  to 
h,  and  good 

son  arrived, 
t  them.     He 

window,  his 
:ourage  and 
no  one  else 
^hen  Madam 
ok  her  son's 
less  that  all 
1  an  impulse 
er  neck  and 
:r  make  you 

to  melt  the 
most  perfect 
at  Dea  could 
ifort  to  her. 

And  Madam 
lere  as  long 
>ment  I  shall 


1,  Pfere  Josef 

in  hi§  chair 

lim,  fanning 

with  Homo 

were  pacing 

doubtless  of 

cage  hung 


-V- 


S?13^"' 


*(fe-    'ff-iH-- 


IjT- 


TOINETTE  S    I  HILIP 


231 


on  a  sweet-olive  tree.     Seline  sat  on  the  steps,  sewing,  and  Lily- 
bei  lay  curled  up  beside  her,  sound  asleep. 

With  one  glance  the  little  priest  read  a  happy  history  in  the 
peaceful  group.  "Z^  bon  Dieu  orders  (everything  well,"  he  said  to 
himself,  as  he  stood  a  moment  unnoticed. 

When  Dea  saw  him  she  laid  down  her  book  and  drew  a  chair 
within  the  little  circle. 

"  No,  no,  my  child  ;  I  cannot  sit.  I  have  duties  to-night  which  I 
must  not  be  tempted  to  neglect.  I  see  that  all  is  well  with  you ;  that 
is  enough  for  me." 

After  a  few  more  friendly  remarks  he  went  toward  the  'ittle  cage 
where  the  "  children  "  were  playing  merrily ;  and,  looking  at  them 
thoughtfully  for  a  few  moments,  he  said,  with  some  embarrassment 
and  a  faint  flush  on  his  thin  face:  .^0^^ 

"  MotL  enfant,  if  you  don't  mind,  if  you  can  spare  them,  I  think  — 
I  think  I  will  take  the  'children'  home  with  me  to-night.  You  can 
have  them  whenever  you  wish ;  but  to-night — well,  perhaps  to-night 
I  feel  a  litde  lonely,  seeing  you  ail  so  happy."  Sighing  gently,  he 
covered  the  cage  with  his  handkerchief,  and,  takmg  it,  went  thought- 
fully down  the  garden  walk  into  the  gathering  twilight.  Late  that 
night,  if  any  one  had  lingered  near  the  little  cottage  of  P^re  Josef, 
although  there  was  not  a  visible  ray  of  light,  he  certainly  would 
have  heard  the  sweet,  tremulous  notes  of  a  flute  softly  rehearsing  an 
old-time  waltz. 

Twilight  gently  descended  on  the  old  garden.  The  scent  of 
dewy  flowers  filled  the  air.  A  sudden  fresh  gust  of  wind  showered 
rose-leaves  over  the  peaceful  grcip.  Some  fell  caressingly  on  th; 
happy  face  of  Toinette's  Philip,  and  some  on  the  bowed  head  of  Dea 
while  with  clasped  hands  she  murmured  her  evening  prayer ;  and  as 
they  floated  and  fell  a  little  brown  bird  clung  to  a  slender  spray  and 
sang  clearly  and  joyously.  .  * 


Chapter  XXXVII 

A   SUCCESSFUL   PICTURE 

„o.  n.y  young  .ade.  .«.  not  ^  la.  ^^^  ^  J- 
I  "Z  ;Z  l:  SIarA:Ll:'i.W.awing.cK>.  seve,a.  yea. 
^''".^jry'ltriight  of  one  of  the  large  windows  stood  an 
charmmg  composmon.    The  backgm  _^  ^^^  ^^^^  ^  ^^^^^ 

-t  T:t;firtn.Sn "vef  a'ld  crown  of  flower,  stepped 
'^"%t7::nrfS"o.  ^^  ^n^..  to  „.  we.  gathered 

rSr^L=:orndi:^^^^^^^ 

was  mduaiii  ^  ^^^  ^j^^j  manner. 

^■""t  'Told  a^rrder  SlwUh  the  r-.ost  wonderful  copper- 
Near  her  f""-*/ '^.•,t^fj„f  i„  her  cheeks.  She  was  not  pretty, 
colored  ha.r  and  »  ^  J?;"';;7;;"„k,d  ,„„„,,t  to  the  third  figure- 

-°e:r^:aXraiticfwit:;tiS^^^^^^^^^^^ 

evT  Cousin  Philip  does  is  perfection^      I  dare  say  u  .s  clever - 
very  clever.    The  pointers  at  the  exhibition  said  so- 

233 


n\ 


1  unneces- 
ient  which 
reral  years 

s  stood  an 
simple  but 
old  garden 
;r  a  young 
rs,  stepped 

•e  gathered 
ition.  One 
:r,  but  with 
md  manner, 
rful  copper- 
3  not  pretty, 
ird  figure — 
like  manner, 
ise. 

dmama,  you 

;  tall  girl,  in 

It.     "  What- 

is  clever  — 


r~\ 


7 

I 


\  M 


'"THIS    IS    WHAT    THEY    SAY    OK    THE    PICTURE,'   SAID    PHILIP." 


vt 


'r- 


TOINETTES   PHILIP 


235 


'•  Before  Philip  had  finished  it  Papa  said  it  was  remarkable  for 
so  young  an  artist  He  worked  on  it  while  he  was  with  us  last 
winter,"  interrupted  Dea,  in  the  same  soft,  grave  voice  of  her 
childhood. 

"  I  'm  not  surprised  at  your  liking  it,  Dea,"  returned  the  other. 
"  Philip  has  made  you  simply  angelic." 

"Oh,  I  don't  consider  it  a  portrait,"  replied  Dea,  a  faint  flush 
coloring  her  delicate  cheek.  "  It  is  true,  Philip  made  a  study  of 
me  for  it,  but  he  has  idealized  it  almost  beyond  recognition." 

"On  the  contrary,  my  dear,"  said  Madam  Ainsworth,  looking 
fondly  at  the  speaker,  "  I  call  it  a  very  good  likeness." 

"  There  is  certainly  a  likeness,  and  a  very  pretty  one,"  exclaimed 
the  tall  girl,  with  a  mischievous  glance  at  Dea ;  "  and  from  Grand- 
mama's  remark  I  see  that  she  is  very  partial  to  the  original." 

"  I  'm  afraid,  my  dear  Lucille,  that  you  don't  appreciate  Philip's 
remarkable  talents  as  you  .should,"  said  Madam  Ainsvvorth,  a  little 

coldly. 

"  Indeed  I  do,  Grandmama ;  I'm  in  a  state  of  constant  admira- 
tion. I  have  heaid  nothing  but  praises  of  that  wonderful  boy  ever 
since  I  came  home.  From  the  eldest  to  the  youngest  in  this  house 
i:  is  always  Philip,  Philip;  and  the  utter  idolatry  in  Bassett's  eyes 
when  he  looks  at  him  is  worth  coming  all  the  way  from  Paris  to  see." 

«'  Yes,  every  one  loves  Philip,"  added  Dea.  "  Papa  adores  him. 
No  one  but  Philip  could  evtr  induce  Papa  to  consent  to  my  spend- 
ing a  month  every  autumn  with  Madam  Ainsworth;  and  Papa  misses 
him  so  after  he  has  made  us  a  visit,  he  is  hoping  that  when  Philip 
leaves  college  he  will  spend  his  winters  with  us,  instead  of  only 
one  month." 

"My  dear,"  said  Madam  Ainsworth,  with  gentle  reproof,  "you 
forget  how  necessary  he  is  to  my  happiness ;  he  is  so  devoted,  so 
troughtful,  really  I  can't  be  separated  from  him  long." 


236 


TOINETTES   PHILIP 


^ 


"  Oh  Grandmama,  you  have  two  other  grandchildren,"  laughed 
Lucille  '  •<  I  'm  getting  terribly  jealous  ;  but  I  like  Philip  immensely, 
and  he  is  very  nice  to  me,  considering  how  badly  I  treated  him  when 
I  was  a  Httle  spoiled,  selfish  prig—" 

Just  at  that  moment  the  door  was  opened  and  Philip  himself 
came  in.  eager  and  flushed.  He  held  a  newspaper  in  his  hand,  and 
his  handsome  face  was  beaming  with  pleasure. 

"Look,  Grandmama;  see,  Dea;  listen,  Cousm  Lucille,  while  I 
read  what  they  say  about  my  picture.  Uncle  Edward  was  indignant 
because  it  was  badly  hung,  but  it  has  been  noticed  all  the  same. 
This  is  what  they  say: 

«  No  270.  Hung  above  the  line,  which  does  littie  credit  to  the  discrimination  of 
the  hang'ing  committee,  etc.  Tender  in  sentiment,  truthful  in  drawing,  with  a  feeling 
for  color,  and  .  strength  and  breadth  not  often  surpassed  by  our  best  painters.  We  are 
told  that  the  artist  is  only  eighteen."  ^ 

"Bravo '."cried  Lucille,  clapping  her  slender  hands.  \ 

"  It  is  not  over-praised,  my  dear  boy,"  said  Madam  Ainsworth, 

^"  Del's  face  expressed  her  happiness.     When  she  felt  most,  she 
said  least;  therefore  she  was  silent.  ,„,.,.        ,       . 

"Oh  it  has  been  sent  home,  has  it?"  said  Philip,  glancing  at 
the  picture.  "Why,  it  looks  well  in  this  light.  You  know  I  was 
so  discouraged  when  they  skied  it.  Now  it  is  all  right.  And  is  nt 
it  like  Dea>     That  's  all  I  value  it  for."  he  added  ingenuously. 

Madam  Ainsworth  looked  at  him  proudly.  He  was  such 
a  fine,  manly  fellow !  He  had  kept  the  beauty  of  his  childhood, 
and,  better  than  all,  he  had  kept  the  simple  honest  nature,  the 
frank  truthful  gaze,  the  merry  laugh,  and  the  tender  loyal  heart  ot 
Toinette's  Philip.  7 

BB    7.4d 


LRB  0  '13 


,"  laughed 

mmensely, 

him  when 

ip  himself 
hand,  and 

le,  while  I 

s  indignant 

the  same. 


crimination  of 
with  a  feeling 
Iters.     We  are 


Ainsworth, 

It  most,  she 

glancing  at 
know  I  was 
And  is  n't 
muously. 
e  was  such 
is  childhood, 
nature,  the 
lyal  heart  of 


^„,,..,.-.-  f  ^.^"v 


-•t^^y 


r~ 


*( 


,vT 


